


The Door Begins To Crack

by lettered



Series: Words And Not Deeds [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Biphobia, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, Misogyny, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Verbal Abuse, Whump, minor appearance of other TWD characters, some Rick/Jessie, some scenes can be read as non-consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 78,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: Daryl tries to live the new and better life he’s built for himself, but doesn’t always succeed.  Especially when it comes to Rick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Wind_Ryder for beta'ing the first part of this fic. You were my first TWD friend and it's been swell getting to know you! Your encouragement was so helpful. Thanks also to snickfic, who has been my friend for many a year and read all this porn just to be nice. You are a treasure.

Two months after the trial Jake called for the tenth time.

Daryl finally answered.

*

Daryl knew what Jake had said about him at the trial was fucked up. He knew he didn’t deserve it. He had friends now to prove it—Carol thought he didn’t deserve it. 

Rick thought he didn’t deserve it.

Rick never talked about the trial. _Actions are what’s supposed to matter_ , Rick had said. The action Rick had taken was to ask Daryl to have a drink with him and then keep asking, as if Daryl was someone worth his time.

They didn’t talk about much. Sometimes they talked about Carol or Sophia—or Rick’s son Carl, when Rick was in the mood, sometimes stupid shit, like traffic or the weather. Rick never seemed to feel a need to fill the silence. They sat and they drank and they shot pool. Sometimes they watched those dumbfuck nature programs on the crummy television in the bar. Every time they hung out, Daryl felt like a goddamn idiot for how much he already looked forward to the next time.

Then Lori—Rick’s ex-wife—had her baby. The baby was Rick’s, even if the wife wasn’t anymore, and Rick was the sort of man who was there for his kid. That was Daryl’s favorite part of Rick Grimes: the way he was a good dad, the way he got wistful when he talked about not knowing what his teenage son liked anymore, as though the things Carl cared about were important to Rick. But that meant Rick’s family came first. Hell, plenty had to come before drinks at some trashy bar. Daryl understood that. 

Then Carol said she was moving onto the Greene farm, and things kinda went downhill from there.

She’d been staying at the house she’d had with Ed, but she’d never intended on staying there after the trial. The divorce was still going through, Ed still trying to take a piece of her, and even if she didn’t get the house, she didn’t have the money to pay the mortgage anyhow. She needed a job, but also needed some stability before she could spend all her time looking.

Daryl had offered up the trailer. She’d stayed there before and it had seemed plenty good enough then, but she’d turned it down this time. “We need somewhere a little longer term,” she’d said.

He’d looked at the yard he’d cleaned up and the flowers in the front and thought, _What’s not long-term about it?_ but he’d known the answer. Sophia needed her own room, and even though he would’ve given her his in a heartbeat, Carol would’ve just pointed out that he needed his own room too. He didn’t; he could sleep on the couch. He could sleep in his truck. He could sleep outside; he’d done it before. 

But none of those were what Carol meant by _long-term_. Long term meant somewhere big enough for a mother and a teenage girl to live like normal people did, not with a gay ex-con chain-smoker. Didn’t matter if Carol didn’t mind that stuff about him, if the place weren’t big enough and the neighborhood weren’t good. The neighborhood sucked, even with the Gutierrez’s next door.

Hershel Greene’s wife, Annette, was someone who wanted to get “involved,” Carol said. Annette was the one who offered Carol and Sophia a place to stay at their farm. “It’s sweet,” Carol said. “I think it’s guilt.”

“What for?” Daryl’d asked.

“For being well-off. For being white. For being Christian.” Carol’d shrugged. “Annette says they’ve always looked after their own, but Sophia getting lost on their property was a sign they should work on doing more good in the world.”

“Pfft,” had been Daryl’s opinion.

“It _would_ be good for Sophia,” Carol said softly.

Daryl looked away.

“You know I wanna be by you.”

“Whatever.” Daryl shrugged.

“Don’t.” Carol’s mouth grew tight. “Don’t push me away.”

_I’m not the one who’s going_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“They just want to help me get on my feet,” Carol said.

_What’re you standing on?_ But he didn’t say that either.

“We’ll visit,” said Carol.

“It ain’t Siberia,” Daryl finally snapped. 

“Does that mean you’ll visit too?” Carol asked hopefully.

Daryl wanted to snap again, but instead he put his head down, nodding.

“Oh, pookie,” Carol murmured. Then her hand was on his neck and she was pulling his head in toward her shoulder. “I’ll miss you too.”

Daryl hadn’t said he’d miss her. He hadn’t even thought he’d miss her; he’d thought he was angry—but then she was hugging him and he realized that she was right. Half the problem was that she’d just be that much farther away, and he loved her.

He loved her.

He’d never loved anyone like he loved her, not ever, and then there was Sophia. And certainly Hershel’s farm was better for her—Hershel’s farm out in the country, with good schools and safe neighbors and horses and plenty to eat, and men who’d never been to jail or sucked a cock. Everything would be better for Sophia there, big blue sky over her, Georgia’s red dirt under her, the trees all around.

*

“I need to see you,” Jake said when he called.

“No, you don’t,” Daryl told him.

“I need you so bad; you don’t understand.”

Jake didn’t need him. Daryl knew it. He _knew_ it.

He stayed on the phone anyway.

“Let me see you,” said Jake. “Just let me see you; let me explain; I need to; I need to so bad—”

“There’s nothing to explain,” said Daryl.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. It was that lawyer; he threatened—but I don’t want to make this about me. It’s you I hurt. You deserve so much more, and you’re better than me. You’ve always been so much better than me; I don’t deserve anything. Certainly not you.”

Daryl had never heard Jake sound this way. Even when he’d apologized before, he’d never sounded this desperate. Daryl knew the feeling and hated himself for knowing it. “You don’t need me,” Daryl heard himself say.

“Oh, honey, I do. I need you so much. You don’t understand how much. Let me show you how much. Just let me see you—baby, let me talk to you.”

This was wrong.

This was really, really wrong, and then Daryl thought of his spotless trailer with the new curtains and the flowers and the plates he’d bought for Carol, and the swing he’d got for the lawn. He thought of the night before him, empty of everything, and how desperately he sometimes still missed Merle.

“All right,” Daryl heard himself say.

“I can come over?” said Jake.

“Just to talk,” said Daryl.

*

Part of the problem was sheer boredom. That whole time Carol’d been with Ed and then after she’d shot him, Daryl had been getting the place fixed up, seeing Andrea, Sophia, and Rick, doing shit to help Carol. These days nothing much filled the time besides his work at the garage, laundry, and groceries. Weren’t like he could go back to doing what he used to do—fucked up shit like palling around with Merle, hustling at pool, picking fights. Swindling people, because he could and Merle thought it was funny. Chasing drugs, booze, cigarettes, and sex.

He didn’t miss most of it. Missed having Merle around. Missed someone who was always there. Someone to talk to and give suggestions for things even if they were dumb as fuck. Daryl didn’t exactly miss the drugs or fights, even though he craved them sometimes. Most times, hunting took the edge off.

Wasn’t true with sex. 

Goddamn. Did he miss sex.

The only substitute for sex with someone else was taking care of it yourself, and there were few things Daryl hated as much as he hated that. When he was alone, thoughts popped into his head, things he never even knew he desired, dirty revelations of his own depravity. 

After the trial, he put off taking care of it. Like if he could ignore his dick for long enough, it’d just go away. Then came the morning he knew it’d been too long. Resigned, he got into the shower, soaped himself, got to work on it—closed his eyes—and there was Rick.

It hit like a ton of bricks.

Daryl’s hand was soapy around his dick and there was Rick’s face, jaw hard, lips soft, eyes so steady that Daryl’s dick jumped in his hand.

Christ.

No.

Daryl’s hand tightened around his cock.

“That’s good,” said Rick.

Daryl gasped, had to slam his hand on the wall of the shower for support.

Fuck.

“You’re all I’ve got right now,” said Rick.

Daryl’s breath caught, hand tightening on his dick, oh God. This wasn’t happening; it wasn’t happening.

It wasn’t happening. Rick wasn’t there. But Daryl could _see_ him, thick curly hair and narrow hips, everything about him so strong and so gentle that Daryl’s dick jumped in his hand again. Jesus Christ.

Rick over the phone: “Let me hear you say okay.”

Rick at the Starbucks: “You’re doing a good job.”

Rick at the barbecue: “Here, drink that.” His eyes over the rim of his cup, watching how quickly Daryl obeyed, then murmuring, “Not so fast.”

Daryl jacked himself quickly to that—so hard and fast he had to brace his forearm against the shower wall, oh Christ, and then he was imagining Rick touching him—that hard hand on his shoulder, squeezing, as Rick had so often done, the careless trail of Rick’s hand after one of the many times he’d clapped Daryl on the back.

“Take care of yourself,” Rick said, voice warm and low in his ear, and Daryl came.

He came so hard that for a moment he couldn’t see straight, but the shower was washing it all away, making his body clean again—as clean as he could get.

He couldn’t scrub his brain.

Shit.

Goddamn.

*

Jake came over just to talk a few days later. 

They didn’t talk at all.

*

Everything got easier after that.

Jake may still have been an asshole but he knew he’d fucked up, so he was treating Daryl good. Carol wanted to learn to use a gun, so Daryl took her to the shooting range a couple times a week. Sophia wanted to go too, but Carol wouldn’t let her, and instead they went out camping. Few weeks after his kid was born Rick started asking Daryl back to the bar more regularly, and Daryl updated him on Carol and Sophia.

“Camping,” said Rick. “I’m impressed.”

Daryl frowned.

“Might not seem like an accomplishment to you,” Rick said, “but convincing Carl to do something like that with me would be harder than convincing him he doesn’t need another PlayStation.”

“He’s not into it?”

Rick shrugged. “Thinks that kinda stuff is lame.”

Despite obviously still having issues with Carl, Rick seemed less burdened. Could be that Carol being safe made him feel everything was right with the world, or maybe now his daughter was born he felt like the marriage that had begun to end over a year ago was finally really over. Either way, he usually ordered a beer these days instead of whiskey, so Daryl had got beer too. He’d never wanted to get drunk in front of Rick anyway.

They drank in companionable silence for several minutes. When Rick started talking again it was like they hadn’t stopped. “I’d think Sophia wouldn’t want to spend the night in the woods, considering she got lost that night.”

“That’s why she wants to do it.”

“That why Carol wants to learn to shoot?”

Daryl’s eyes slid over to him at the tone in Rick’s voice.

“Ed’s not a problem anymore,” said Rick.

“Could be.”

“She’s got a restraining order.”

Daryl looked at him.

“She wants to learn to shoot, she can,” Rick said. “But if she’s doing it to defend herself, there are better ways.”

“Woman shot her husband,” Daryl pointed out. “Weren’t a better way then.”

“Yeah.” Rick sounded unhappy.

Daryl studied him, the loose grip of his hand around the neck of the bottle. Rick brought the bottle up for another sip, fingers tightening on the neck, and Daryl looked away. “It ain’t your fault,” he said.

Rick turned to look at him.

“Ain’t your fault she shot him,” Daryl said again. “Just happened.”

“Yeah.” The words hadn’t cheered Rick up, not that Daryl thought they actually would.

Rick faced back forward, so Daryl allowed himself to look again—the thick curls of Rick’s hair, the steady gaze of his eyes into nothing. He was letting his beard grow out again, getting thick to the point of a little wild in a way that made Daryl hot when he thought too much about it. The ring hadn’t been on Rick’s finger since the barbecue. 

“She’s just learning,” Daryl said. “Doesn’t mean she’s gonna use it.”

“Do you use one?” Rick turned to him. “That night in the woods, you had a crossbow.”

“Cleaner kill.” Daryl’s eyes narrowed. “Trying to tell me you don’t like guns?”

“A gun is a necessary weapon,” said Rick. “Just not always the right one.”

“We gonna talk politics?”

“I dunno. You want to?”

Daryl felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He nodded his chin at Rick. “Bet you voted Obama.”

Corner of Rick’s mouth went up too. “I like a man who wins.”

Christ.

Daryl looked away quickly, the blush hot on his neck.

Goddamn.

And Rick just sat there calmly drinking his beer.

“I don’t vote,” Daryl felt the need to say, wanting to pretend the way that Rick had said that hadn’t affected him. 

Rick looked at him.

“None of them politicians ever did jack shit for me,” Daryl said.

Rick just kept looking.

“What?” said Daryl. “Gonna tell me do my civic duty? My job as a citizen? ‘Exercise my right’?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to do anything.” Turning away, Rick brought the beer back up to his lips—easy, almost lazy, then his lips were wrapped around the opening and he was pouring it back, long line of his throat exposed. First the beard, then the adam’s apple, all the way down to that hollow spot at the base of his throat.

“Sophia’s learning hunting,” Daryl said in a rush, followed by a quick sip of beer.

“On that slingshot?” said Rick. “She was showing Carl on the Fourth of July.”

“Yeah. That’s why I got her to go camping,” Daryl said. “She wanted to learn to defend herself too.”

“And she was good with hunting instead?”

Daryl shrugged.

“Carl’d probably think hunting was cool.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t really do it,” said Rick.

“At all?”

“I look like the hunting type?”

Daryl made a point of looking him over.

“I can find a murderer,” said Rick. “Burglars, rapists, crooks, and thieves. Chase down a suspect, follow a lead, pick up clues at a crime scene, shoot if I have to. But a deer? It’d probably eat me for breakfast.”

Daryl chewed his lower lip.

“That make me less of a man?” Rick teased.

Daryl pulled more of his lip into his mouth.

“Hey, you don’t vote; I don’t hunt.”

“You could come with me,” Daryl blurted.

“Yeah?”

Ducking his head, Daryl shrugged. “If you wanna.”

“You gonna teach me?” Rick said, his voice low.

The blush came back, hotter than before. Daryl kept his head down. “Could show you a thing or two,” was all he said.

“I’d like that.” Rick’s voice was still low, but gentler now, and kinder, enough for Daryl to chance a glance up.

He couldn’t read Rick’s face, but there was no teasing in it.

“When you gonna take me?” Rick asked, and Daryl looked away again, quickly.

This was bad.

Real bad.

“Whenever you wanna,” Daryl croaked.

“How about soon.” Rick finished off his beer. “Real soon.”

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU Georgia's hunting seasons are different. By which I mean I ignored them.

They did go hunting soon. Rick called him the very next morning. His weekend was free, he said; how about Daryl’s?

Jake had said he was coming over that weekend, but Daryl didn’t care. He texted to cancel and told Rick he was free, and Rick said they should go both days. They could fish as well, which Rick said was something he knew how to do, unlike hunting. Said Daryl should drive, since Daryl knew all the best spots. Daryl said he’d get the stuff together—his and Merle’s old shit: bedrolls, guns, kindling, rods, tackle boxes. 

Daryl felt stupidly nervous, anxiety crawling in and out of his stomach like some slinking skunk. It was imbecilic. Weren’t like he’d asked just so he could spend time with Rick; it was for Rick’s kid and this was pretty much the only thing Daryl had to offer, and Rick had wanted it. Was grateful for it. Relied on Daryl for it and trusted him to do it.

Rick arrived bright and early Saturday morning, jeans so worn they fit him like a glove, shirt pulled tight by the flare of his shoulders and curve of his bicep, cowboy boots as old as he was, looking butter-soft. “This your place?” Rick asked, standing on the cinderblock stoop.

Stepping out, Daryl pulled the door shut behind him, not wanting Rick to see how shitty the interior was.

“You ready to go?” Rick said, surprised as Daryl passed him by.

“Stuff’s already in the truck,” said Daryl.

“Okay. Lemme get my stuff.” Rick brushed by him, scent of soap and leather, then walked over toward a car that made Daryl feel a lot better about everything. Big old Subaru, kind of car a mom would have. Rick opened up the back and Daryl came over to see. The car was full of gear.

“What’s all this?” Daryl asked.

“Be prepared,” said Rick.

Daryl eyed him. “You a scout?”

“Eagle.” Rick started taking stuff out. “Couldn’t get Carl into it. Lori wanted him to do swimming.”

“Seems like y’all want him to do a whole lot.”

Rick turned to him, brow wrinkled.

Daryl shrugged.

Turning back to his car, Rick pulled out another bag. For some reason, Rick bringing so much stuff made the anxiety ease out of Daryl’s stomach and fade away. They were going hunting. They were going hunting so Rick could learn how and teach his kid, and this was the one thing in the world Rick could’ve asked of him now that Carol was safe. It was the one thing in the world Daryl knew how to do really well.

“Hold up,” said Daryl. “What’s that for?”

“What?”

Daryl kicked the bag on the ground.

Rick frowned. “It’s a tent.”

Daryl looked down at it, back up at Rick, back down at the bag. Made it pretty clear what he thought of it, and Rick put his hands on his hips. 

“You don’t want a tent?”

“Whatever.” Shrugging, Daryl walked away.

Got into his truck, started the engine. Rick squinted at him, frowning, then began putting everything back in his Subaru. When he came over to get in the truck with Daryl, he just had the one bag, which he threw into the back.

“What, you didn’t wanna bring your makeup?” Daryl said.

“You’re tough on me. You know that?”

Grunting, Daryl backed out of the yard.

“You and Carl would get along.” Rick put his boots up on the dash.

Daryl glanced at him as he navigated his way out of the trailer park. “Carl know how much you talk about him?”

“It embarrasses him,” Rick said. “Thinks I’m a giant dork.”

They were driving along and Rick’s cowboy boots were sliding off Daryl’s dash so he could lean over to fiddle with the radio, talking about what a dork his son thought he was, and Daryl wanted him.

He just wanted him.

Not even for something nasty. Daryl had Jake for that. He had Rick for this: just to be, right here, like this. He wanted it forever, even when Rick turned the radio to some stupid pop song. He just wanted Rick right there, saying stuff about his kid, smiling when Daryl was surly with him, looking like a camping magazine cover. Rick knew about everything—Jake and Pop and Merle and everything—and he just ignored it, pretended it wasn’t true, and was going hunting with him anyway.

And Daryl was happy. 

That was the crux of it. He was _happy_ with Rick sitting there, looking out the window now so Daryl could see the tumble of his hair, happy in a way he’d never been happy before.

Leaning in a little, Daryl switched the radio.

Rick turned to him with this offended look.

“Son’s right,” Daryl said. “You’re a dork.”

“Asshole.”

Daryl glanced at him, corner of his mouth turned up.

Rick’s mouth tugged up too.

*

Rick knew more about hunting than he had let on. Or at least, going through the woods with him was a lot less of a trial than going with Sophia and Carol. He missed a lot of the traces and sounded kinda like a herd of elephants moving through the brush, but Daryl didn’t have to say a lot to teach him. Daryl’d just point to a broken twig, some scattered leaves Rick had missed; Rick would do a double-take, and nod. Started stepping in Daryl’s footsteps after a while too, obviously trying to be as quiet.

The only thing that could compare was getting to teach Sophia, and that was completely different. Teaching Sophia made Daryl feel soft inside, gentle in a way he never knew he could be. But teaching Rick was . . . Daryl was _good_ at it; he knew so much; he hadn’t even known how much he knew.

He wanted to show Rick everything.

When they finally cornered the buck they’d been tracking, Rick swung Merle’s gun off his shoulder, starting to take aim. Daryl put his hand on the barrel to stop him, and Rick looked at him inquiringly. Daryl nodded toward the buck. “You gonna eat all that?”

“Thought that’s why we were hunting it,” Rick said.

“That was just to show you.”

Rick lowered the gun.

“You can get it if you want,” Daryl said. 

Rick gave him this inscrutable look, pulling his lip into his mouth and slowly dragging his teeth over it before letting it go. “Show me something else.”

Daryl stood up, quickly turned away.

Rick got up to follow.

*

They got a rabbit around two o’clock.

Rick was a good shot, got it right in the head. Said he didn’t know how to skin it though, so Daryl showed him how.

“I skinned a cat in high school,” said Rick.

“Never pictured you for a sadist.” Daryl cut off the head, then a line across the collar bones.

“It was for a class,” Rick said, smiling like Daryl meant him to.

“What kinda class was that?”

“Anatomy.”

Daryl never took no _anatomy_ , but Rick was paying attention when Daryl pulled the skin off, and even asked about cutting off the feet.

“You made that look easy,” Rick commented, once Daryl was done.

Daryl had blood up to his wrists. Looked over at Rick, but he didn’t seem to be teasing. “Done it before,” Daryl said roughly.

“It’s cleaner with the crossbow?”

Daryl shrugged. “Could’ve saved the head.”

“Head any good?” Rick asked, following as Daryl went to wash his hands in the stream nearby.

“Ain’t a delicacy,” said Daryl.

As they were rinsing their hands, Rick looked over at him, crossbow slung across Daryl’s back. “What’s the draw weight on that?”

Daryl returned the gaze. Rick still didn’t look like he was teasing, but that was about the fiftieth question.

Rick shrugged. “I was thinking about Carl.”

“One-fifty,” Daryl said, turning back to the creek.

“Guess that explains those arms.”

Standing abruptly, Daryl turned away, went back over to the rabbit. It was the end of September, still too muggy out for long sleeves. Daryl’d thought about it, then decided he was being a pussy, worried about Rick looking at his arms. Stupid.

Rick came up from the creek, over to where Daryl was standing, looking at the rabbit. “We gonna cook it?” Rick said, hand clapping on Daryl’s back.

Daryl flinched. 

Rick’s hand slid off.

“I’ll get a fire started,” Daryl said, moving away.

Rick just stood there, watching while Daryl got the brush together and found dry twigs. “Let’s go fishing after this,” said Rick, after nearly fifteen minutes had passed.

Daryl looked up from the kindling.

“Still got a lot of daylight left,” Rick pointed out.

“Okay,” said Daryl, lighting the brush.

*

The stream trickled down into a pond, swampy on the east rim but drier farther north, rockier where the land began to slope. Eventually Rick and Daryl came to a boulder Daryl’d found before; the rock braced against the water, creating an overhang. They climbed up it with the tackle boxes, arranged themselves on the rock and hung the poles over, lines dangling into the water below, which was at least three feet deep. Deep enough for trout, anyhow.

The Georgia air was slow and sticky, the water still as green stained glass. Not too far away a bird chittered off and on. “Probably mad we’re distracting his fishing,” Daryl said, after it had been whistling at them for a while.

Rick looked at him inquiringly.

Daryl nodded up into the branches. “Kingfisher.”

Rick looked where Daryl’d nodded. “I don’t see anything.”

“You hear it,” said Daryl.

Rick turned his attention from the branches to Daryl. “You know birdcalls?”

“Some,” said Daryl, embarrassed.

“You come out here a lot,” said Rick. 

“I used to do this with my brother.” Daryl adjusted the height of his line.

“Sorry.”

“Nah. He’s a dick.”

“He’s family.” Daryl glanced back, and Rick shrugged. “Hard to put that aside.”

He wasn’t just talking about Merle—Lori, his ex-wife. 

Daryl wished he could say something, do something, but Rick was just sitting there, staring out over the pond. All Daryl could do was look.

Rick’s profile was perfect, like something that should be on a coin.

“I used to do this with Shane,” said Rick. “Deputy Walsh.”

Daryl waited.

Rick didn’t say anything else.

They continued fishing. The kingfisher kept on crying.

*

Five or six hours later, ten or eleven o’clock. 

They’d caught a modest amount of trout and cooked them over another fire, ate in silence. Did a bit of tracking in the darkness, Daryl pointing out the stars, then came back to their burnt-out fire and laid out their bedrolls. Daryl built the fire back up a bit, not because they needed the heat, but the light and smell would keep critters away from their gear. Wasn’t ready to go to sleep yet anyway.

Apparently Rick wasn’t either, because he sat down across from him, stared into the fire. Daryl poked at it, trying to get enough of the wood to catch but not burn up. Embers were what they wanted.

“I got shot,” Rick said. “Last year.”

Daryl glanced up from his poking. Rick was still looking into the fire.

“I was in a coma for six months. They decided to pull the plug, and I woke up. Two months physical therapy.” Finally, Rick lifted his eyes from the flames, settling his gaze on Daryl. “Arresting Merle Dixon. That was the first thing I did back on the job.”

Daryl poked at the fire.

“Lori,” said Rick. “She . . .”

Rick paused for so long that Daryl thought maybe he wasn’t gonna finish. It emboldened him to look up, knowing that Rick’s gaze had drifted off him back down to the flames, knowing the fire would light up Rick’s face so Daryl could see it the way he wanted to without necessarily being seen. The light was gold on Rick’s skin, highlighting his high forehead and cheekbones. It licked at the hollow of his throat, his hands, sent up gold highlights into his hair.

“Lori and Shane,” Rick finally said.

Daryl looked back into the fire, ashamed for having looked at him that way. Shit, his wife. His wife and his friend.

“They thought I was dead. As good as.” Rick extended his leg, touched the toe of his boot to the end of a log that wasn’t burning, nudged it gently deeper into the fire. “They were gonna pull the plug. It’s not her fault they fell for each other. Or his.”

Judith. That was the name of his baby girl. His new baby girl. No wonder Rick was so torn up about it, family man like him, and it explained Carl too. _He wants me to fight,_ Rick had said once. He’d meant Carl wanted Rick to fight to keep Lori, but Rick hadn’t. He’d said they tried to make the marriage work and when it hadn’t, he’d stepped back and let his friend have the woman he loved.

“I haven’t been in love with her for a long time,” Rick said, “but I loved her. In my own way, I loved her. And I loved him.”

Daryl’s chest went tight.

“I loved him the way you love air,” Rick said. “You take it for granted; you don’t even think about needing it. You feel like it’ll always be there, and then one day it isn’t, and you’re choking. I been choking for a year. Ever since I woke up, I’ve been choking.” Rick nudged the log again, all the way into the fire. 

The flames enveloped the log, flaring up hot.

“You make me feel like I can breathe,” said Rick.

Daryl ducked his head, swallowing hard. Every part of him felt thick, his head, his throat, his heart, his blood too thick to keep moving under his skin. The only thing he wanted was Rick to say it again. Just say another thing like that, keep going. More.

Instead Rick stood up, moved around the fire. His hand dropped down onto Daryl’s shoulder—the same gesture Rick so often used, just the clasp of his hand, heavy and solid. Daryl couldn’t look up at him, but it lasted longer than usual and finally Daryl wanted to see him so badly he couldn’t help himself. Rick’s face was only shadows at this angle in relation to the fire, and then Rick’s hand was sliding off him.

“Need help banking it?” Rick said.

“Nah,” said Daryl.

“Okay,” said Rick, moving off to his bedroll.

Rick lay down behind him and Daryl couldn’t move. He didn’t ever want to move outside of that moment, that moment with Rick’s hand on him and his throat burning and the smoke swirling up into the stars. The sound of cicadas filled up the night.

Eventually, Rick started snoring softly, and something broke in the fire. It settled down to embers, and Daryl got up to bank it.


	3. Chapter 3

Next time they met at the bar Rick said, “I got Carl this weekend.”

The hunting trip had been last weekend. On the second day they’d shot a few marsh hens then headed back home. As he got in his Subaru to leave, Rick had said they should do it again sometime. That night Daryl had found himself in the shower unable to stop thinking of him—the fire, the smoke, the stars, Rick’s southern drawl, his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, _you make me feel like I can breathe_.

Daryl rubbed himself off so hard thinking about it that he wanted to hurt himself, get in a fight or something, make his knuckles bleed, get his face bruised up, burn himself, anything to take the focus off his cock and how bad he wanted to come at just the thought of Rick. When he finally did come he couldn’t stand it; he hated it. Rick had told him something pure and Daryl had made it filthy.

This was why he needed Jake. Everything with Jake was filthy, nothing to get messed up, and when Jake fucked him it took the edge off.

Now they were at the bar Daryl felt better. Rick didn’t know anything about it and he never needed to; Daryl could act as though it never happened, and the hunting trip had been good. It’d been real good, and Rick wanted to do it again.

“You doing something?” Daryl asked Rick, because Rick liked talking about Carl, and Daryl liked talking to Rick about Carl.

“Got no plans,” said Rick. “I only get every other weekend with him; seems like I should make it special, but I haven’t got a clue what to do.”

“Hm.” Daryl sipped his beer.

“Got any ideas?”

Daryl eyed him.

Rick shrugged. “You’re good with Sophia.”

“That’s because Sophia’s good.”

“No,” said Rick. “You’re good with her.”

“Pfft.” Feeling Rick looking at him, Daryl shifted uncomfortably.

Another long moment passed. Daryl wanted to crawl out of his skin.

“Wanna come over?” said Rick.

Daryl finally looked at him.

“Have dinner with me and Carl,” said Rick.

Daryl’s heart skipped.

“I’d cook out,” said Rick, “but I don’t have a grill anymore.”

Daryl didn’t know why Rick was doing this, saying these things.

Rick just went on, oblivious. “We could get pizza.”

“ _Why?_ ” Daryl finally managed, sounding more aggressive than he meant to.

Rick frowned. “I want you to meet him.”

“Already met him,” which wasn’t what Daryl meant to say either. He was sounding like he didn’t wanna have dinner with Rick and his kid when it was something Daryl had never wanted so badly. “At that Fourth of July,” he added lamely.

Rick just looked at him. After a while he said, “Carl and Shane used to really get along.”

_Well I ain’t Shane_ , Daryl wanted to snap.

“Carl hates him now,” said Rick. “And he hates his mom. Can’t convince him that people just—do what they do, and he’s mad at me for letting it happen.”

_I can’t help you_. Daryl refrained from saying that too.

Rick said, “I just want him to . . . move on. Be around adults he doesn’t think betrayed him. Be around someone he can look up to.”

“I ain’t someone to look up to.”

“Yeah,” said Rick, in that way he had where he didn’t agree at all. He wasn’t even trying to pretend like he gave any credence to Daryl’s words.

“Why don’t you ask Carol?” Daryl said finally.

“I probably will,” said Rick. “But right now I’m asking you.”

And he just went on sipping his beer.

Of course he just sat there sipping his beer. He couldn’t have any idea Daryl would still be doing those things with Jake, letting Jake do them to him. Rick had no way of knowing the things Daryl thought about in the shower. Rick had forgotten those things at the trial, or was ignoring them out of politeness and decency, too honorable to linger on uncharitable thoughts for long. Rick was the sorta person who said it weren’t his wife’s fault she’d cheated on him, weren’t his best friend’s fault for betraying him, the sorta person who could forgive anything even when he shouldn’t. Course he didn’t see a problem.

“I have it on good authority you like pizza,” said Rick.

“Fine,” said Daryl.

“Good,” said Rick.

They finished off their beers in companionable silence.

*

Rick had an apartment, which wasn’t how Daryl had pictured him, but then he realized Lori must’ve got the house. Rick had probably just stepped back and given her that too.

The apartment was real nice, but not fancy, not like the ones on TV or anything. Rick’s was just normal, with a living room and a kitchen and a space beyond the kitchen with a table. The hall beyond must lead to bedrooms and a bathroom. 

Weren’t much bigger than Daryl’s trailer really, but it felt bigger, partly because it was so empty. Things were still in boxes. A couch was in the living room and a TV, but for some reason it looked like a couch no one sat on, a TV no one watched. The counters in the kitchen were empty. Rick didn’t even have a toaster.

Daryl couldn’t figure out where Rick had put all that dumb gear he’d had in that soccer-mom Subaru. Maybe he’d had to go pick it up from his ex-wife at his ex-house, all his stuff still in the garage and half of his life still in that house; maybe he’d got it together and even borrowed the car from his wife just so he could go hunting with Daryl.

Daryl’s chest hurt.

But Rick didn’t say anything about the apartment, just reintroduced him to Carl, who’d noticed Daryl had come on the bike. Other than pointing that out, the kid seemed sullen, didn’t say much, and Rick didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence neither. Daryl felt tense about it at first; Rick had said he wanted his kid to have someone to look up to so Daryl should say something smart or nice or something, something like Rick would say. 

But he couldn’t think of anything and Rick just acted like Rick, quiet and kind of intense, maybe a little too serious. Might be he wasn’t expecting anything after all, like this silence was just how it was in the Grimes’ household. Like this was just how it was without his ex-wife. Without Shane.

After the pizza came Carl seemed to have had enough of the silence. “You didn’t really steal that bike, did you?” he said.

“No,” Daryl said, eating his pizza.

“Are you a cop?” said Carl.

“No.”

“You helped find that girl,” said Carl.

“Sophia,” said Daryl.

“Her mom shot her dad.”

Daryl glanced at Rick, who kept eating his pizza.

“Dad said it was your brother’s bike.” 

That one didn’t seem to require a response, so Daryl ate his pizza too.

“You said it was someone who owed you money,” said Carl.

“Brother owed me money,” Daryl said.

“What for?”

“He stole from me. Then pawned my stuff.”

“What’d he pawn?”

“My phone,” said Daryl. “TV. Air conditioning.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Drugs.”

Carl looked at Rick like Rick was gonna object to that, but Rick just went on eating his pizza.

“What kinda drugs?” said Carl.

“Crystal,” said Daryl.

“Crystal _meth_?” said Carl.

“Yeah.”

“Your brother’s a meth head?”

“Your dad arrested him,” Daryl said.

“What?” Carl turned to Rick, aghast.

“Eat your pizza,” said Rick.

“Have _you_ ever done meth?” said Carl.

Daryl glanced at Rick, who shrugged. “Some,” said Daryl.

“Mom’s gonna _flip_ ,” said Carl.

“I don’t anymore,” Daryl felt the need to say, careful not to look at Rick this time.

“Why not?”

Daryl shrugged, looking down at his plate. “’S bad for you.”

“People start in different places,” Rick told Carl.

“Like in _meth labs_?”

“Carl,” said Rick.

“I can go,” said Daryl.

“You sit down,” Rick snapped, and for a second Daryl couldn’t breathe. Rick didn’t sound angry, just like someone who gave commands and was used to having them obeyed.

Daryl wouldn’t’ve left that chair for a million dollars.

“We judge people by what they do,” Rick said, looking at Carl. “Not by their past.”

“But meth can kill you,” said Carl.

“Nah.” Daryl could feel Rick turn to him, but Daryl went on anyway. “It’ll just make you trip out. Start seeing things. Rot out your gums. Teeth all black and yellow, hanging on by threads. And your skin stretches over your bones, and you can’t pay your bills because you spent all your money on crank, and you can’t make more because you’re too tweaked all the time to work, and cockroaches crawl in your food except you don’t want food anyway, so you probably starve to death if you—”

“Daryl,” said Rick.

Daryl shrugged, ate his pizza. “I seen it happen.”

“For real?” said Carl.

“Your dad has too.”

“Dad.” Carl turned to Rick, real excited now.

“Don’t tell your mom,” said Rick, and ate his pizza.

“That’s disgusting.” Carl threw his crust on his plate.

“But hey, do drugs if you want,” said Daryl.

Beside him, Rick snorted.

Carl looked at Daryl, new interest in his eyes. “Dad said you hunt.”

“Your dad’s a real conversationalist.”

Rick kicked him under the table.

“Like, deer?” said Carl. “Do you hunt deer?”

Daryl shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Rick stood, grabbing Carl’s plate. “You finished with this?”

“Do you use a gun?”

“Crossbow,” said Daryl.

“Carl,” said Rick. “You finished?”

“Yeah, sure.” Carl barely looked up. “Like a real crossbow? How many arrows does it have? Does it load automatically?”

Snorting again, Rick took his and Carl’s plates off to the kitchen.

“I can show it to you,” Daryl said.

Carl’s eyes went big. “For real?”

“If it’s okay with your dad.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “My dad’s lame.”

Leaning over, Daryl grabbed another piece of pizza.

“You’re not gonna try and tell me he’s cool?”

Daryl shrugged.

“Why are you even friends with him?”

_Because he asked_ , Daryl wanted to say, and didn’t. _Because I make him feel like he can breathe_. “He ain’t an asshole,” Daryl said finally.

Carl’s head tilted, lip curled, for a second looking so much like Rick it was uncanny. “Maybe he should be an asshole.”

“Being an asshole’s easy,” said Daryl. “I do it all the time.”

“You’re kinda messed up,” said Carl.

“Yeah.” Daryl went back to eating his pizza.

“Daryl said I could see his crossbow,” Carl said, when Rick came back in the room.

“Yeah?” He was carrying beers, caps popped off, cold vapor still curling out of the bottles. Came over and set one in front of Daryl, then used his free hand to settle on Daryl’s shoulder—like this was a thing he just did all the time now, like it was just a casual normal thing. Maybe it was, except when the hand slid off again, Daryl had to swallow hard at the way Rick’s fingers trailed.

“Well, can I?” Carl was saying.

“Can you what?” said Rick.

“See his crossbow,” said Carl. “He said I couldn’t unless you said.”

“Did he?” Rick’s eyes cut to Daryl’s as he downed a swig of the beer, something in his eyes Daryl could not identify.

It was all he could do not to fidget.

“ _Dad_ ,” said Carl.

“Yeah,” said Rick, finally looking back at Carl. “Okay.”

They moved into the living-room. Besides the couch, Rick had some folding chairs, and Daryl wondered whether Rick even really lived here at all. For so long he’d imagined Rick living such a full and perfect life. Even after Rick had told him about the divorce, Daryl had just assumed Rick had old college friends over for football nights and played racquetball with a buddy in the evenings and talked to all the moms who swooned whenever Rick showed up to pick Carl up from swimming.

Maybe Rick didn’t have any of that at all. Maybe that was why he wanted Daryl here.

Meanwhile Carl seemed to have warmed up. Wanted to know where Daryl lived, what else he hunted, whether he’d ever shot anybody with a crossbow, where you buy a crossbow, how old you had to be to get one, what about a motorcycle, how much did a motorcycle cost, how much did meth cost, how much his phone Merle had pawned cost, how much he pawned it for, whether he played any video games, did he like Halo, Carl thought he would like Halo, he should try Fallout, Dad never played Fallout, Dad sucked at video games.

“Hear he’s pretty good at Angry Birds,” said Daryl at one point.

“Dad sucks at Angry Birds,” said Carl.

“Told you,” Rick said, in response to Daryl’s glance. Rick had had about five of them beers, but per usual he didn’t sound the least bit intoxicated. Daryl was still just working on his second.

“What did he tell you?” Carl asked Daryl, glaring.

“He told me you think he’s a dork,” said Daryl.

“He _is_ a dork.”

Daryl glanced at Rick, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “Yeah.”

Rick shook his head, smiling.

“It’s not funny,” Carl said.

“It’s pretty funny,” said Daryl.

“No, it’s not.”

“Nah. It’s funny.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Feeling his lip twitching, Daryl looked at Rick again, but Rick’s expression had changed. He was still looking at Daryl, but now it was that determined, thoughtful look he’d seen before when Rick made up his mind to do something. But all he did was lick his lips, stand up, and say, “Let’s play Monopoly.”

“Ugh,” said Carl. “Monopoly’s for losers.”

“Your dad don’t like to lose,” said Daryl.

Rick’s gaze snapped back to him and once again, Daryl didn’t know what it meant.

“I’ll show you how to play Fallout,” said Carl.

The strange look fading out of his eyes, Rick shrugged.

Daryl said okay.

*

Daryl went home around eleven or so, late but not so late he could get to sleep right when he got home. He was keyed up a little, thinking of Rick and Carl and what he could do for them; maybe he could help them somehow, make it better for Rick.

It was stupid. It was just—being around people made Daryl wind up tight, and being around Rick made him wind up tighter, even if it made him feel good at the same time. What he wanted to do was go out for a ride, go out hunting, but it was late and he was tired and he wanted—he just wanted to smoke or something. He wished Carol was there. She’d’ve made fun of him. Told him settle down.

So Daryl made himself try, sat down on the sagging couch in front of the TV he’d bought after Merle pawned his other one. Put on some stupid show about cars and tried to watch it. Settled down. Closed his eyes, and there was Rick.

_You sit down._

Fuck.

Daryl’s hand was unbuttoning his jeans before he was even rationally thinking about it, and then he was rationally thinking about it but couldn’t stop himself. Rick’s hand on his shoulder, the trail of his fingers—Daryl imagined it differently now, like Rick was holding him down, not letting him move.

_You sit down_.

Christ. Christ, Daryl was jacking himself hard at just the thought of it, Rick saying it again like that and pinning him there, the way Rick was so kind most of the time, polite, but every once in a while, something like that slipped out.

_Not so fast,_ over the rim of his cup at that barbecue.

_Let me hear you say okay_ , on the phone that one time.

_Shane. Let him go._.

Oh fuck. 

Fuck.

That hadn’t been hot when it had happened, when they’d been looking for Sophia and Shane had grabbed him. Rick had said let go and Shane had just done it, like he’d was used to obeying, and Daryl hadn’t thought of that since it happened but now he thought of it, and Jesus, this was so fucked up.

_You sit down_ , Daryl thought again, arched off the couch, came all over his fist.

Goddamn was he messed up.

*

Three days after the dinner with Carl Rick called and asked Daryl if he could meet for coffee.

They never did coffee anymore, not since those early days when they were still helping Carol, and Daryl wondered what was up. He said yes anyway, because it was Rick, and they met at the Starbucks in the evening. 

“Want hot chocolate?” Rick teased.

Daryl shrugged, so Rick got chocolate for them both.

“Let’s go outside,” said Rick, once the drinks were in hand, so they went outside. “Let’s walk a bit.” So they walked.

The area was suburban, a midway point between Daryl’s trailer, Carol’s old house, and the precinct. It was full of strip centers with braid salons and chain take-out and big box grocery stores just beyond the cookie cutter houses. Weren’t sidewalks along the main road, but they walked along it anyway for a block or two until Rick took a turn into one of the neighborhoods, where there was a park along the road.

Something was wrong. Rick was even more quiet than usual, yet strangely energetic, walking quickly and eyes intently forward. Sucked down his drink fast too, dunking it in the trash once they got to the park, then turning to Daryl. “I didn’t wanna ask you this in a bar,” Rick said.

Daryl’s hand tightened on his drink. He’d only had a sip of it.

Glancing up, Rick squinted. It was around seven o’clock, still light in the Georgia autumn, but the sun was getting low and gold, the sky a bit of pink. The light glinted across Rick’s face.

“Ask me what?” Daryl made himself say, anxiety a tight fist in his stomach.

Rick looked back at him. “I wanna go out with you,” he said. 

Cars rushed by on the big street. Insects crawled along in the grass.

“I don’t know whether I should have—” Cutting himself off, Rick ground his teeth. “I haven’t done this in forever. I just wanna date you.”

“What the fuck,” said Daryl.

Rick just looked at him.

“What the fuck, Rick.” Daryl chucked his drink in the trash.

Rick looked at the trashcan, back up at him. “That a no?”

“You like girls,” Daryl told him, stating the obvious, the elephant in the fucking room.

A wrinkle appeared in Rick’s brow. “I like both.”

“Both?” Daryl spat. “ _Both_? It don’t work that way. If I could like both, what the fuck you think I’d choose?”

The wrinkle went deeper.

“If I could like both, you think I’d be a faggot?”

“Don’t use that word.” Rick’s voice was different now—harsh, like a command, but Daryl didn’t care.

“Why, you don’t wanna be one? That’s fucking great you get to choose. You get that idea at the trial? Heard I was a sissy and think, ‘gee, maybe I’ll get me a piece of that one day’?”

“If I ever heard anyone talk about you the way you just talked,” Rick said slowly, “I’d make them regret it.”

“Oh yeah?” Daryl snarled. “Gonna make me regret it?”

“That asshole at Carol’s trial,” Rick said. “Jacob Shot. I wanted to kill him.”

“But you didn’t.” Rage was so boiling hot in Daryl he didn’t know how to control it, didn’t even know what he was saying, because it hurt. It hurt so bad—Rick had been thinking this about him the whole time. “You heard what he said. You sat there and soaked it up and you remembered. You kept it in mind! Why, you think it’d be useful one day when you decided you like guys?”

Rick’s eyes went distant, still looking forward and yet somehow not quite looking at him. “I’ve always been this way.”

“You tell your fucking trophy wife?”

“She didn’t need to know.”

“Yeah, no wonder she left.”

Rick twitched. “It’s nobody else’s business.”

Daryl was behaving like a jackass. He _knew_ he was behaving like a jackass, but Rick was jerking his chain. Rick couldn’t have just been _Rick_ this whole time with his _I like both_ ; that wasn’t the way it worked. 

“I’m with someone,” said Daryl.

Rick’s eyes tracked back to his, widening. “I didn’t know.”

“’It’s nobody else’s business’,” Daryl mocked.

Rick swallowed hard.

“You never asked. This whole time, you never asked.” Daryl came closer. “You figure it didn’t matter? I’d cheat on him just like your wife because I’ll take it wherever I can get it? That’s right; you remembered what a slut I am for it.” Daryl was in his face now, but Rick didn’t give an inch. In fact he was so still that even the smallest movement was noticeable—his harsh breath, the slight flare of his nostril.

Slowly, he tilted his head. “I told you not to talk like that.”

“Yeah, you _don’t_ talk like that, do you?” Daryl pushed forward. “You thought you could just pretend to be normal with your _I like both_. That what you thought?”

“Forget about what I thought.” Rick’s voice was eerily calm.

“You just didn’t wanna be a faggot,” Daryl said, just to get a rise out of him. 

Rick’s only response was to tilt his head again in that asinine way, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Say something.” Daryl pushed him. 

Rick stumbled back, but after he still just stood there, and Daryl remembered Rick was the person who let his wife cheat on him with his best friend, then didn’t even do anything about it. Carl wanted him to fight; his wife had told him he didn’t talk enough about his feelings, and he was still just standing there, doing nothing. 

Jesus, he had a _wife_ , and still with this _I like both_ bullshit.

“Do something!” Daryl yelled. God, it hurt so bad.

“Like what?” Rick said, and the tone at least was scathing, but something about it was still strangely aloof, as though Rick was somehow removed from the situation. Like Rick was mad but not even mad at him, angry at something else entirely, and Daryl had the startled realization that maybe this really was why his wife left him. 

Everything Daryl had known and believed about him was a lie; Rick had never told him the truth, never let him see who he really was when Daryl had had to give up everything. He’d given up everything in that courtroom; everybody knew, and Daryl felt like he gave it up every time he saw Rick—trying to be someone good, someone better, and Rick hadn’t given him a thing.

Except Rick had.

Doled out slowly, over months, only a trickle but given, nevertheless. Rick telling Daryl about Carl. Rick telling Daryl about the divorce. Rick telling Daryl about Shane, and then that still night in Georgia woods, smoke swirling into the sky and the sound of cicadas thick in the background, Rick telling him what had happened with his wife.

_You make me feel like I can breathe._

Daryl’s own breathing hitched. “Something.” He shoved Rick again. “Anything. Rick. Just do something.”

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Okay.”

He turned around and walked away into the sunset. His figure faded into shadow, then disappeared completely. Behind him, the sky was like a gift, wrapped in pink and gold.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next few days, Daryl couldn’t stop thinking about what Rick had said. _I like both. I like both. I like both_. 

You couldn’t. 

You couldn’t like both. Daryl was so angry he didn’t even want to hit something; it wasn’t enough. He wanted to tear something down. He didn’t know why; he didn’t know why he’d said those things to Rick; he couldn’t even remember what he’d said. He just remembered it hurting, and he didn’t know why it hurt either—why it hurt so bad, what was painful about Rick saying _I like both_ , but it was.

It was.

It hurt so fucking much he couldn’t think.

If Rick was that way he could have said it, instead of leaving Daryl alone with it. If Rick was that way then he—he couldn’t be _Rick_ ; he couldn’t be perfect and honorable and noble. A part of Rick had to be sick inside, had to be dirty, had to be something Daryl hadn’t known or hadn’t seen, never suspected, and the worst of it was they wouldn’t be friends after this.

The worst of it was that Daryl had hurt him.

Rick hadn’t looked hurt, had just stood there, taking it. Probably took it when his wife dished it out too, his son, his friend—everyone in his life; he just stood there and took it, but Daryl had made him feel like he could breathe. Rick had trusted him, put a faith in him no one ever had before, and Daryl had broken it.

*

When the knock came at the door that weekend, Daryl went and opened it, then turned away.

“You left the door open, baby,” Jake said, coming in and closing it behind him.

Daryl was already taking off his pants.

“Oh, my, we’re eager,” said Jake.

“You gonna fuck it or sit there yapping?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “Looks like you’re gonna put on a show. Maybe I’ll just watch.”

Stalking over to him, naked from the waist down, Daryl jerked Jake’s belt undone. Was starting on the zipper when Jake grabbed his wrists. “Hey,” Jake crooned. “You know I like to be in control.”

“Then control it,” Daryl said, wresting his hands away and going back for the zipper.

“Oooh, sassy,” Jake breathed, grabbing Daryl’s hands more firmly. “I been going too easy on you? Miss being treated like the slut you are?” When Daryl reached for his pants again, Jake roughly pushed him, yanking his hair to turn him. “Poor little feelings were hurt by those things I said in front of all those people, huh?” Jake said in his ear, pushing Daryl toward the table. “Hard having everyone know what a slut you are, having them know how easy your pussy spreads.”

“Hurry the fuck up,” Daryl said, because Jake was only just bending him over the table.

“I don’t think so,” Jake whispered.

“Yeah,” said Daryl, twisting back to grab Jake’s upper arm and drag him down. “I think so.”

“Oh, you want it like _that_.” Ripping Daryl’s hand off, Jake forced it on the table, hard. Then he yanked on Daryl’s hair again, pulling up his head only to slam it down on the table.

Daryl gasped, seeing stars. “That’s a little better,” he slurred.

“Fuck,” breathed Jake.

“Get on with it,” said Daryl.

Jake’s fingers slid down between his cheeks. “Damn,” he said, “you already slicked yourself up. You know I don’t wanna have to touch that nasty hole; got your cunt all wet for me like a girl—”

“I said hurry the fuck up,” Daryl said, twisting his head up just because Jake smashing it down on the Formica was the first time he’d felt anything so far.

Jake slammed his head down again, but it wasn’t as good, and then he pushed inside, but it wasn’t as good. He wasn’t big enough or didn’t fuck hard enough or it didn’t hurt enough or _something_ ; it burned, but after those first few strokes it was all just rote. Daryl needed something new; he needed it to hurt more; he needed—fuck, he didn’t know what he needed; he needed _not to decide_.

“That all you got?” he asked after another minute. Jake had been talking dirty but that wasn’t enough either. It was all so unoriginal and none of it was bad enough; none of it was vile enough for what Daryl was, like words just couldn’t be obscene enough to describe him.

“You want it harder?” said Jake, bashing Daryl’s head down again and proceeding to fuck him harder.

“Might as well watch a documentary,” said Daryl, once he caught his breath.

“Jesus,” said Jake, pulling out completely, stepping away from Daryl and the table.

“Yeah, I knew you couldn’t handle it,” Daryl said, just to make him mad.

Jake didn’t say nothing but he was doing something, and then Daryl heard the leather slither against the belt loops.

His heart sped in anticipation, but his voice was bored as he goaded, “You even know how to use that thing?”

The belt came down on his ass, and the bright sting of pain was the first good thing Daryl had felt since that night in the park, the pink sky unfolding around him. 

Daryl shifted against the table. “That was sorta weak.”

“Such a filthy slut,” Jake said, and hit him with the belt again.

Jake did it a few more times and it felt good until it got boring—always the same amount of force in the blows, always a steady rhythm hitting the same places. Daryl liked it that way sometimes; sometimes he just wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted, but predictable could be nice. But now it was annoying.

Daryl shifted on the table again. “Your daddy obviously never hit you very hard,” he said.

“Christ,” Jake breathed, then turned the belt around.

Hit him with the buckle that time, and that was better.

“That what you want?” hissed Jake. “The way your _daddy_ did it?”

Jake did it again and it felt good and Daryl hated every part of himself.

Eventually there was a lulling quality to the blows, his raw skin hurting so much that it almost didn’t hurt anymore, or at least the pain wasn’t as bright. The belt just felt like dull thudding, and Daryl imagined his skin slowly flaying off, the muscles under it turning into pulp, bleeding out on the table and he’d still just keep being beaten, beaten into nothing. Beaten until the belt was just coming down on a messy table and there was nothing left of him, nothing left to think or feel.

“That all you got?” Daryl croaked after another minute, because it wasn’t _enough_. It still wasn’t enough.

“Christ,” Jake said again, and then there was fumbling, hand sliding in blood on his ass and Jake was inside him again, fucking him again, fucking him so hard and fast it hurt in a whole new way.

Daryl closed his eyes and there was Rick.

_I like both_.

Daryl heard a horrible ripped-up sound and knew that it had come from his own throat.

_We judge people by what they do,_ Rick had said.

Then Jake was coming inside of him and Daryl was cursing him because that idiot, that dumb faggot, he’d finished before Daryl could get off on it. He was almost _there_ ; he was almost coming, being fucked on a table and beaten raw and thinking of those things Rick said—the kinds of things Rick said—

But it was too late. The moment was lost, and Daryl couldn’t come, and Jake was pulling out saying, “You’re a filthy fucking cunt,” but that wasn’t enough either. “Looks like the poor little slut couldn’t even get off on it,” said Jake. “You always do take forever.”

“It’d be easier if you had a bigger cock,” said Daryl.

“Goddamn,” said Jake, and pushed him down on the table again.

*

Jake had X, but not nearly enough of it.

“I didn’t think I could get you to do it anymore,” Jake explained.

Daryl took it anyway.

“Can I fuck you when you’re high?” said Jake. “I just wanna feel connected to you.”

“I don’t wanna be connected.”

“Baby,” Jake began, in a wheedling tone.

“I ain’t your baby,” said Daryl. “You don’t wanna be connected neither. You wanna fuck someone who’s high outta their mind because it gives you a power trip.”

Jake sneered, something he didn’t often do. “And you wanna get fucked when you can’t do anything about it because you’re too pathetic to admit how much you want it.”

“So why’re you fucking asking?”

Jake grimaced.

“So you feel better about it?” said Daryl. “So you feel like I actually said yes those other times? You’re a fucking asshole.”

“Well, fuck you too.”

“Do whatever the fuck you want to me,” said Daryl. “Just don’t fucking _ask_.”

*

The high didn’t last nearly long enough, and neither one of them had anything else to use except the whiskey in Daryl’s organized and newly-painted cupboards. So they drank all of that, then Jake went to the store and got more, and they drank all of that too.

Daryl was lying on the bed smoking, still feeling like shit. He was bruised all over, welts and cuts across his ass; every part of his body ached, but it wasn’t enough. He could still _think_ , and in the end, Jake was an asshole but never very creative. Leaning over to Jake on the bed beside him, Daryl gave him his lit cigarette.

“I don’t smoke.” Jake made a point of sniffing disdainfully. “Ain’t a trashy redneck like you.”

“Put it on me,” Daryl told him, still holding out the lit cigarette.

“What?” Jake recoiled.

“Anywhere you want,” Daryl told him.

“Jesus,” said Jake, but he didn’t sound turned on like he had those other times at the possibility of inflicting pain.

“You can hold it down,” said Daryl, waving the cigarette at him, “or drag it. Anything you want.”

“Jesus fuck,” said Jake. “I don’t want _that_.”

Daryl put the cigarette back in his mouth.

“Christ,” Jake said again. “Your daddy really did do a number on you.”

Daryl took the cigarette out of his mouth, looking at his hand. He could do it right at the base of his thumb. It’d hurt good enough for a minute or two, anyway.

“Fuck.” Jake knocked Daryl’s hand away from the cigarette. “Don’t do that in front of me.”

“Why?”

“It’s sick, that’s why.”

“I’m sick,” said Daryl. “You tell me all the time.”

“Oh my God.” Jake rolled his eyes. “You know I’m just messing around.”

Daryl looked back at the cigarette, slowly dropping ash onto his hand.

“Come on.” Jake tugged his arm. “Don’t do that. It’s actual, for real, messed up.”

Scowling, Daryl put the cigarette back in his mouth. Another moment later, he took it out again. “You beat me with a belt and fucked me with a bottle. You choked me so hard I turned blue and it made me come. How is that not messed up?”

Jake looked at him like he was crazy. “I didn’t do anything permanent,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing.

“Get out.” Daryl put the cigarette back in his mouth.

“You asking me to do it again?”

“I ain’t playing around,” said Daryl.

“Want me to fuck you with something even bigger?” Jake asked, leaning in. “Think you can fit a gun up that ass?”

“No. I’m telling you, get out.”

Leaning back, Jake hesitated.

Daryl got out of the bed, stark naked, then pulled on Jake’s arm. “W—what?” he stuttered as Daryl pulled him off the bed. Still smoking his cigarette, Daryl looked around the room. Found Jake’s pants, threw them at him. 

“I don’t wanna see you no more,” said Daryl.

“You want it bad,” said Jake, and dropped the pants.

Daryl threw his cigarette on the bed, stalked forward, got Jake against the wall. Jake struggled, and Daryl pulled his hands together, held them easily in a single fist, got them above Jake’s head. Daryl was bigger. Stronger. He _always_ picked men who were smaller because it made him feel safe; he knew he could do this if he had to, but nothing felt safe about this now.

Daryl wanted to break him in half.

Jake was shaking, eyes wide, mouth open. Daryl leaned in, mouth real close to Jake’s ear, the way Jake liked to do when he had Daryl in his control. “I don’t wanna see you ever again,” Daryl said, his voice real soft.

“Daryl.” Jake twisted in his grasp, gasping. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good.” Daryl’s fist tightened, crushing Jake’s hands together harder, feeling the delicate wrist bones. “Maybe I could get off on it like you.”

“You’re not—you don’t get _scared_ ,” said Jake. “I wouldn’t like it if you did. I wouldn’t like it if I made you feel bad, if I actually hurt—”

“Christ,” said Daryl. “Listen to yourself.”

“Please.” Jake actually whimpered. “Let me go.”

Daryl dropped him, and Jake sagged against the wall.

“I mean it,” said Daryl, turning away. “I don’t ever wanna see you again.”

“Okay,” said Jake, his voice quivering. “Okay. I’ll just—I just gotta get my shirt.”

The smell of burning suddenly became prevalent.

“What the fuck,” Jake said, aghast.

“I said get out,” said Daryl, not turning to look at either the fire or Jake.

“You’re fucked up,” Jake said, meaning it in a way he’d never meant it before.

Then Jake was gone and the bed was burning, and Daryl knew he had to put it out but he just didn’t fucking want to. He just wanted to watch it burn.

Mom had died this way.

“Why don’t you just stand there and cry about it,” Merle’s voice said.

Christ. Merle.

Daryl wished he had another cigarette.


	5. Chapter 5

It took a bit of time to realize, after the whole thing happened, that Rick had asked to date him.

Daryl had been hung up on it being some kind of heinous prank, on _I like both_ , on what Rick had heard about him at the trial, and on the fact Rick had never told. He’d even gotten hung up on his own behavior, the things he’d called Rick and what he’d done to him. He’d ruined their friendship because he was a dick who’d lost his temper, not even for a good reason. 

But sometime later, once Daryl was able to think about it rationally, it occurred to him, dully, that in addition to whatever the hell Rick had meant by _I like both_ , he’d meant he liked Daryl. He’d wanted . . .

Who knew what he wanted. People like Daryl didn’t date. Maybe they did on TV, where everything was nice and Will and Grace thought it was fucking funny, but Daryl’d never dated. Liking cock was all about hookups and blowjobs.

But Rick had asked him out.

Rick had wanted him. 

It didn’t even really matter what he’d wanted him for; Rick had wanted him and Daryl could’ve had him. 

He could’ve had him.

*

The next weekend, Daryl dragged himself out of Merle’s bed to find someone else in his trailer. 

The living room was littered with laundry, trash, cigarette stubs, and booze. In the dining area, pieces of a broken bottle sat untouched on the table and the floor under it. Daryl had barely been in his own room since the fire, the bedding a blackened mess on the floor, the mattress charred. The vague scent of ash, whiskey, and vomit permeated the trailer, except in the kitchen.

The kitchen was bright and smelled of antiseptic lemon.

“Gimme back that key,” Daryl said, after processing the sight of Carol at his kitchen counter. 

“You smell like a trashcan,” said Carol.

“I ain’t had a chance to shower.”

“Well, go do it.” She shoved him in the arm.

“Pfft,” said Daryl, but he went and did it.

Twenty minutes later he came out again, clean as he could get and wearing fresh clothes. Maybe he was still not smelling his best with all the liquor he’d consumed; he could still feel it in his pores, but he felt better nevertheless.

“This ain’t your house,” he told Carol, no heat in his voice. “You’re the one decided not to stay.”

“I haven’t heard from you in two weeks.”

“There was a fire.”

“That so,” Carol said in a humoring-him way, not even looking up from her vegetable-cutting.

Daryl wanted to make her look. “I dropped a cigarette on the bed.”

“Thought you quit.” Carol picked up all the veggies and put them in a bowl.

“Nah.” She was looking in his cupboards now, finding what she wanted, then pouring it into her bowl. Daryl didn’t even know what she was pouring; he’d found weird stuff after she left and kept it there in case she ever came back. “My mom died that way,” Daryl said.

“Mm-hm.” Carol screwed the cap on the bottle and put it back in the cupboard.

“Smoking in bed.”

“Should’ve taught you not to do it.” She started mixing whatever was in the bowl, as if she didn’t feel sorry for him at all.

Daryl leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her.

“You have someone over?” Carol said, still mixing.

Daryl chewed on his lower lip.

She got down the salt and pepper, shook it in, put back the salt and pepper, went back to mixing. The sun was coming in from the kitchen window, lighting up her face, curling in her hair. She looked young like that, like a baking commercial with laughing children, steaming pie in the window, table set for four. She made the place look real pretty, like a home.

“You gonna answer me?” said Carol.

“What’re you making?” Daryl asked, nodding his head at her bowl.

“Who was it?” Carol said.

Daryl’s eyes narrowed.

Another minute with her mixing passed, then suddenly she took the wooden spoon outta the bowl and hit it on the counter with a solid thwack. She whirled on him, and he peeled off the wall, standing up to face her more fully. “You can have someone over. You can fuck whoever you want, whenever you want.” Carol cussing always sounded wrong, her sweet lilting voice gone high. “You’re an adult; you get to. What you don’t get to do is let them treat you like shit.”

Daryl held himself very still, waiting for her to lash out harder.

“You don’t get to let them drink you under the table, make you something you’re not. You don’t get to let them hurt you—you wouldn’t let them hurt me! Why would you let them do it to you?”

“You ain’t my mom,” Daryl said, after a long moment.

“No, I’m not, because you just told me your mom burnt to a crisp in her bed! Why would you go and do the same thing? It’s hypocritical. It’s self-destructive. It’s _stupid_.”

Daryl looked her over. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Carol get so worked up—not like this, anyway. It was because she cared about him, he knew, and something in him instinctively rebelled at that. All this time—the things she knew—and she still didn’t know him, not really. She acted like those things he let Jake do to him were Jake’s fault, not his own. She didn’t know he’d backed Jake up against the wall, made him cower, made him practically piss himself. She didn’t want to know, because she cared about him.

He could hurt her too. 

Wouldn’t take much. He could just say the right thing, and—snap. There she’d go.

_Self-destructive,_ she’d called him.

“Just grow up,” Carol said, sounding incredibly frustrated.

Daryl moved around her, looked down into her bowl. There was hamburger-looking stuff in it, along with the onions and other stuff she’d put in. “Is it meatloaf?” he asked.

“Get your fingers out of there,” Carol snapped.

“Sorry,” Daryl said. Taking his fingers away from the bowl, he touched her arm.

Carol heaved a sigh. “Who was it?”

Daryl let his hand drop. “Nobody important.”

“It wasn’t Jake, was it?”

Daryl shook his head. 

“You don’t see him anymore, do you? No one like that?”

“I’m not gonna,” said Daryl.

“People care about you. You know that? Sophia and I, we care. Rick cares about you too.”

That lemon cleaner scent was sharp. He hadn’t even known he had lemon cleaner. Maybe she’d left it the last time she’d been here.

“I was trapped, and I had Sophia. You don’t have that excuse.”

Picking up the wooden spoon, Daryl poked at the contents of the bowl. “You sure this is meatloaf?”

Carol made an irked sound. “Have you ever even thought about dating?”

“Stop.” Throwing the wood spoon in the sink, Daryl finally turned to look at her.

“Have you?” said Carol.

“It ain’t your business.”

After glaring at him for a moment, Carol’s shoulders sagged, her face softening. She reached out. “I just want you to be—”

Catching her hand, he pushed it back toward her, carefully stepping away. “I know what you want me to be,” he said roughly.

Swallowing hard, Carol turned back to her bowl and her meatloaf and everything she’d done for him, trying to make his life better, trying to make him better than he was. She just kept looking down at it and blinking, and Daryl wondered whether this was what she used to do with Ed. When her husband did horrible things to her, she blinked at the meatloaf and tried to keep going on.

Daryl had thought about hurting her, but he hadn’t actually meant to do it. Looking at her, he didn’t know what he could say that would make it right. She was so beautiful, her head bowed, sun still streaming through her hair.

“I’m trying,” he said finally, voice like sandpaper in his throat.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you.” Lifting her head, Carol squared her shoulders, opened a cupboard, got out some pans. “If someone’d told me to grow up while I was trying to get through being with Ed, I would’ve wanted to run them over with a truck.”

Daryl watched as she took out a spray can, started spraying the pans. Got her hands on the meatloaf and started forming it into loaves for the pans, picking up chunks and stuffing each one full. “Ed’s different,” Daryl said.

“No.” Carol kept pressing the meat in. “He’s exactly the same.”

When she got done she washed her hands, put the pans in the oven, turned on the timer. Put water on to boil, got out mugs and shook out instant coffee into them. Daryl just kept watching, attentive, because each and every movement of her hands and wrists and body were beautiful to him, important somehow.

After washing the dishes, she put the boiling water in the mugs, handed one to him, then took one for herself. Then her free hand went up to his cheek, and standing on tippy toes, she kissed the other one. “Come on,” she said, dropping back down to her heels. “It’ll take a while to cook.”

He followed.

*

A few days later, Daryl visited Merle. Daryl had been going once a month, but this time he was early. Daryl guessed he wanted to see him, who knew why. 

“Well look who it is,” Merle said, when the corrections officer brought Daryl over to the table. Other people sat at other tables, family visiting convicts. The sight was not at all unfamiliar.

When he’d been in foster, Daryl had visited Pop like this.

“Bring me anything?” Merle asked.

“You know I can’t.”

“Sure you could find a way,” said Merle. “If you was trying.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed. He sent Merle shit almost every month—stupid stuff, nothing important, the shaving cream he liked and candy and dirty magazines.

Merle smirked, like he’d said it just to get a rise out of him.

“Why’re you here?” Daryl asked suddenly.

“You gone stupid, boy? I was set up!”

“Nah, man. Why’re you here? You didn’t need all that meth. What’d you buy it for?”

Merle looked at him appraisingly. That thoughtful look was dangerous, the kind he gave when he was figuring how much he could take you for, but Daryl didn’t have to be scared. Nothing Merle could take from him he hadn’t already took. “Why you suddenly wanna know?” Merle asked.

Daryl shrugged. “Because it was stupid, man. You were smarter than that. You could’ve done something different.”

Merle snorted. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Daryl waved a hand at him. “We could’ve started a garage, that money I was saving. Could’ve had our own business, decided our own hours, had our own . . .” Daryl waved his hand again, “clientele.”

“A business?” Merle laughed. “Look at you, Mary Sue.”

“I’m serious.”

“What’re you talking about? Us? A garage?” Merle shook his head. “You know nothing like that was ever gonna happen. There’re takers and losers, and I decided to be a taker—”

“What’d you take?” Daryl said. “What’d you ever take worth taking? All you took got you locked up in jail and pushers no doubt gunning for you when you get out. You ain’t got no friends. You ain’t got no living. You ain’t got nothing, so what’d you take?”

Merle stared at him, eyes flinty now, mouth gone sullen. “Yeah? And what you got? Pussy like you, always crying about what he can’t have?”

“At least I’m out here!”

“Pfft. Out there ain’t so great.”

Merle’s gaze finally dropped, and Daryl knew he’d hurt him. Sometimes cruelty seemed like the only way to get through to Merle. Daryl knew it’d made him harder, harder than he had to be. He didn’t have to be an asshole.

He didn’t have to be an asshole like he’d been to Rick.

“Why’d you leave?” Daryl heard himself say. “When we were kids. Why’d you leave me?”

“Aww.” Merle sneered. “You miss me?”

“We could’ve had a better life,” said Daryl.

“Oh, Darylina, cry me a river. You sad because you don’t have no big brother to take care of you? Why don’t you just find someone—some big strong man; you know you could find someone to take care of that ass—”

“No.” Daryl stood up, chair screeching back. “I don’t need anyone. I can do it on my own.”

As Daryl turned to go, Merle said quickly, “The Governor.”

Daryl half turned back.

“He’s the reason I did it,” said Merle. “The crystal—he wanted me to buy it up.”

“What kinda name’s ‘The Governor’?”

Merle shrugged. “He’s not a bad guy. He had this plan; if we could make it work, we could’ve been set for life. That’s what I was doing, why I stole your money and pawned your shit and stuff. It was for you—both of us. Once we did this deal—”

“You didn’t do it for me,” Daryl said. “You never did anything for me.”

“You listen to yourself? I was the one actually trying. What were you doing? ‘Open a garage’? You gonna sell your ass in the back? Because that’s the only way that would’ve—”

“Goodbye, Merle.”

“Fine, walk away,” Merle called. “But I’m the one being realistic. No one was ever gonna help you, swoop in, take care of you—it was only ever me. I’m the only one!”

Daryl just kept walking.

*

A week later, Daryl drove out to the Greene farm.

Carol had asked him to come, wanted him to socialize, see Sophia. “Get out of your own damn head,” she’d added, knowing he was in a rough patch if not knowing why.

Sitting in his truck in the Greenes’ yard, Daryl tried to convince himself to go up to the door. He’d barely been making it to work, giving serious thought to skipping it altogether and scoring coke instead. But he didn’t. He went to work and then he spent the evenings out on the bike, only crashing in the trailer long enough to get a few hours of sleep, then dragging himself out the next morning. Socializing was pretty much the last thing on his brain.

Daryl hadn’t heard a word from Rick since that night in the park.

Something tapped against the driver’s side window. Startled, Daryl looked out.

A girl was standing there, blonde, skinny, big eyes. Beth Greene, Daryl remembered, then unrolled his window.

“You gonna sit in there all day?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he growled, thinking it’d make her go away.

Instead she said, “Sophia’s been waiting.”

“She can wait a little longer.”

Her mouth pulled in at the corners, disapproving but not unkind. “It’s been almost a month since you visited her.”

_Get outta my face_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“You know she worships you,” Beth went on.

“Man, you got a point?”

Beth shrugged. “No.”

“Then why’re you still here?”

“Just looking.”

“Look somewhere else.” Daryl rolled out a crick in his shoulders, in part just to seem threatening.

“You’re kinda crusty,” she said, as if to demonstrate just how unthreatened she felt.

Daryl’d never spent any time talking to Beth before this, and now he was glad he hadn’t. Pert little thing just like her sister, except Maggie was a little more sass and a little less insight.

“I guess it’s why she likes you so much,” said Beth. “She wants to be tough.”

“All right, already,” Daryl said, getting out of his car. 

Beth stepped back and he slammed the car door, just to make a point, but Beth didn’t seem at all disturbed. “She’s in the study,” she said, walking away.

Daryl wasn’t sure when his life became dealing with teenagers. He wasn’t cut out for this shit.

*

“Were you talking to Beth?” Sophia said, later when they were in the woods. They were on the edge of the Greenes’ east pasture, looking for signs of rabbits.

Daryl grunted.

“I don’t like her,” said Sophia.

“Why?”

“She’s so . . . ugh.”

Glancing down, Daryl observed her walking, kicking her feet in a moody way. She kept her hair short these days, curving just under her chin, her little face still sharp. 

“All she cares about’re makeup and movies and boys.”

Daryl tried to interpret from her expression why she sounded so mad about it.

“Dumb stuff, you know?” said Sophia. “She doesn’t care about anything important.”

Daryl held some branches for her and she passed by, whacking at the leaves with her elbows and completely ruining the trail. “Important like what?” he asked finally, when Sophia didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

Sophia shrugged. “I dunno. Important stuff. Maggie’s way more cool.”

“You don’t got a big sister or a big brother,” said Daryl.

“So?”

Daryl shrugged.

“You have a brother, right?” When Daryl nodded, she asked, “Is he like Maggie?”

“Nah. ‘Maggie’s way more cool.’”

Sophia scowled at him. “Why?”

“He was a drug addict.”

“See?” said Sophia. “That’s important. That’s something you could get worried about.”

Daryl held some more branches. “If you got a sister who’s loud and take-charge and everybody listens to her, you’re gonna end up different.”

Sophia snorted. “Beth Greene isn’t different.”

Daryl’s eyes cut down to her. “Neither am I.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Daryl shrugged again. “Get noticed less, you see more. I don’t mean I see things good,” he added. “Just different. Bet Beth does too.”

“She doesn’t see things different. She’s just . . . ordinary.” Sophia kicked along the trail.

Daryl thought about telling her not to, but didn’t, following along a little behind.

“You miss your brother?” Sophia looked up at him.

“Yeah.”

The air was a bit cooler, now it was October, tendrils of breeze enough to cut the water in the air and make it almost pleasant in the pastures. In the woods there was less of a breeze, cobwebs and sap still making everything a little sticky. “You miss your dad?” Sophia asked.

Daryl liked the woods, being surrounded, branches overhead to shield you and trees all around, like sentinels. “Yeah,” he told Sophia.

“I don’t miss my dad.” Sophia scuffed her shoes some more.

“That’s fine,” Daryl said, remembering all those times Rick had said that. _That’s fine._ Soft, Daryl had noticed, soothing, gentle, like Daryl was some wild animal or kid. 

Except Rick had said he wanted to go out with him. He obviously hadn’t thought Daryl was a kid then.

“How come you don’t wanna date my mom?” Sophia asked.

Daryl almost tripped. He knew Sophia hadn’t been paying attention to their tracking, but he hadn’t expected this. “You’re fussing up the trail,” he told her, waving his hand at her feet.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Daryl hefted his crossbow higher on his shoulder.

“Well?” said Sophia.

“Maybe it ain’t your business.”

Sophia tilted her head up at him. “Think I care?”

“Jesus.” Daryl pushed on ahead of her through the brush. “You and your ma both.”

“What?” Sophia asked, crashing along behind him. “She ask you why?”

Pushing through some branches, Daryl didn’t bother to hold them for her. Kid could go through on her own.

“I thought she was into you,” Sophia said, doing a pretty good job keeping up, even if she was short of breath. “Back when Dad was around.”

Daryl’s eyes slid over to her, slowing down because Sophia’s chest was heaving and he wasn’t a complete tool.

“She ain’t still,” said Daryl.

“I guess not,” said Sophia.

They’d come to a bit of a meadow, just one tall gray tree offering shade with open spots of light lacing the edges in the clearing surrounding it. High up in the tree was a jumble of twigs, some moss and mud—not an old one left over from spring, not newly made either. A summer nest. Lots of birds only did one nest a year but robins were real busy. Babies had to have been grown by now, though. “Look up there.” Daryl pointed to the nest, but Sophia just stood there, looking up at him.

“I’m not falling for that,” Sophia said, crossing her arms.

Dropping his hand, Daryl adjusted his crossbow again, looking down at her with narrow eyes.

Sophia’s eyes were challenging, but eventually her shoulders sagged, and in that moment she looked so much like her momma that Daryl’s heart hurt. “You don’t think she’s pretty?” Sophia asked, her voice small.

“If you ain’t falling for a birds’ nest I ain’t falling for that either,” Daryl told her, keeping his voice soft.

“But don’t you?”

Daryl adjusted his crossbow again, mostly because it was something to do instead of having this conversation. If he could’ve taken it off and shot it to kill something he would’ve, except for how Sophia would get angry and tell him he was avoiding the subject again. “She’s pretty,” Daryl said finally.

“But you don’t wanna have sex with her.”

Daryl looked down at her, chewing on his lower lip.

“What?” Sophia raised her little chin. “I’m thirteen. I’m allowed to know about sex.”

Giving her a noncommittal shrug, Daryl looked away, still biting his lip.

“ _What_?” said Sophia.

Daryl shrugged again, uncomfortable. “Your mom ain’t told you,” he said, and he didn’t understand the way that made him feel, the fact that Carol had kept that secret even from her own daughter. Daryl had had to tell the whole world, up there on that witness stand, and plenty of people’d probably talk about it all the live-long day, but not Carol. She knew that truth was his. She’d never say a thing she thought was his to tell.

Rick never would’ve told anyone either.

Rick never told anyone anything.

_It’s no one else’s business._

“My mom’s told me about sex,” Sophia said, her voice contentious. “She told me all about sex. She said I should know, so no one could ever do anything bad to me.”

“Good,” said Daryl.

Sophia scowled. “What?”

Daryl bit his lip again.

“ _Daryl_ ,” she said, that annoyed little sister/daughter/teenage voice. She took a step toward him, and Daryl took a hurried step back.

“I’m a—” _fag_ —“gay,” Daryl said.

It felt like taking off his belt and handing it to someone who could use it to hurt him, which was just so dumb. Sophia was a kid. She shouldn’t have been able to touch him.

But she could. She could hurt him worse than any belt ever had.

Her nose scrunched. “Okay?”

Daryl waited.

“So, you like guys?”

Daryl nodded.

“You could still go out with my mom,” Sophia pointed out.

Daryl shook his head.

“Because you wanna go out with guys?”

The air was a moderate temperature but Daryl could feel sweat start at the small of his back. Up in the nest, a robin whistled a series of notes.

Daryl nodded.

“That’s okay, I guess,” Sophia said.

The robin kept going as though nothing at all had happened. 

“I don’t hate Beth,” said Sophia.

Daryl had to take a moment to adjust to the change of topic.

“She’s just so . . . she’s so pretty and perfect, and all the boys like her, and—and her daddy’s so nice and she’s really smart and nice and tries to—to, you know, be nice to me, but it’s just because she feels sorry for me, because of my dad, and what Mom did, and—”

“Honey,” Daryl said, awkwardly reaching for her.

She rushed up to him, pressing her face against his torso. He put his arms around her.

“Imma get your shirt all wet.” Trying to pull back from him, Sophia wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

Pulling her to him again, Daryl put his hand in her hair.

_Grow up_ , Carol had said.

He was trying.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next month, Daryl continued to try.

He continued teaching Sophia how to hunt, Carol how to shoot. They went camping a couple more times, but Sophia was getting busy with school and Carol had lots to do. She was still working on legal stuff for the divorce, Andrea advising the divorce lawyer to get things settled. Whole thing was messy what with Carol having shot her husband and gone on trial for it. Carol’d also been looking for a job, pointing out she’d been with the Greenes for months now and it was time to start pulling her own weight. She picked up some work cleaning houses, which meant Daryl got to tease her about wearing all the rubber gloves she wanted. 

Instead of moping around because his friends were was busy like he’d done before, Daryl hunted more. Ordered pizza and talked to Glenn about Fallout. Bought a stupid PlayStation. Read an article in a magazine he’d grabbed at the checkout because it had the word _bisexual_ on it, even though it was about Lady Gaga. Replaced the bedding in his bedroom, quit smoking entirely for the first time ever, and never saw Jake.

Never saw Rick neither.

Didn’t even hear a single word about what Rick was up to. No one could keep him updated except Carol, who probably just assumed him and Daryl were still friends. Daryl didn’t even know if Rick was still in touch with Carol until Carol mentioned Thanksgiving.

“Hershel said I could invite who I want,” Carol said.

Daryl eyed her, safety headphones around her neck, plastic goggles shoved back on her head, fingerless gloves on her hands. They were at the shooting range, no one else around. “That mean there gonna be eighty people?”

“No,” said Carol. “Just Hershel’s family. And Glenn. And Otis and Patricia.”

Daryl snorted. “What about the other seventy?”

“I invited Rick,” said Carol. “He said he doesn’t know if he’s coming. He’s got that new girlfriend.”

Daryl went very still. “Who?”

Carol frowned. “Jessie, from Virginia. Got two little boys. He didn’t tell you?”

“Nah,” said Daryl.

“What do you two talk about all day, anyway? Ballet?”

“Nah.” Daryl shrugged. “I dunno.”

Daryl turned back to the range. Picked up the first gun he saw. Shot it down the line until the clip was empty. Walked down to the target board. 

All the shots were misses.

Carol was shouting something, then running up to him. “The RSO didn’t call a ceasefire,” she said.

“What?” he growled, turning to glare down at her.

Carol’s eyes went wide. “Oh, pookie. Rick?” 

Daryl stalked back to the line.

When Carol put her hand on his shoulder, he flinched. “Sweetie,” Carol said. “You had to know he’s as straight as the day is long.”

Daryl looked down at her. He couldn’t see her. He had to shoot the gun again.

Carol took her hand away. “Does he know you feel that way?”

“No.” Daryl reloaded the gun.

“Give it time.”

“Yeah.” Daryl turned back to the range.

_You had to know he’s as straight as the day is long._

Maybe Rick really was straight. He’d just been confused for a while, knowing Daryl was gay, knowing things Daryl had done, the things Daryl must want.

 _I’ve always been this way_ , Rick had said.

But it’d been almost two months since that evening in the park, and he had a girlfriend, Carol had said. Rick must’ve got his head screwed on straight. Real straight. 

_Straight as the day is long._

Daryl fired off another round.

*

Hershel’s family was at the farm for Thanksgiving, Maggie back from her apartment in Atlanta, Glenn visiting. They were dating, Daryl guessed, Glenn and Maggie. Whenever Glenn came by he talked about her non-stop, if he wasn’t talking video games. Otis was there with his wife Patricia; Daryl’d met Otis several times, liked him. Felt more familiar than some of these other folks, like someone Daryl could’ve known or gotten along with, even without what had happened to Sophia. 

Rick came. He was alone.

Didn’t seem to see Daryl when he came into the living-room, and anyway everyone else was making a fuss over him. “Rick, good to see you,” said Hershel, shaking his hand.

Rick smiled at him, looking different than Daryl remembered, which was strangely painful. That big beard was gone entirely, Rick freshly shaven, and his hair had been cut too short. The curls in back weren’t gone completely, but they didn’t touch his collar anymore.

“Where’s Carl?” asked Sophia.

“With his mom.” Rick looked down at her. “He gets to be with me for the weekend.”

“You still haven’t brought Deputy Chambler,” said Sophia.

“I’ll tell her you asked.”

“She’s funnier than you,” Sophia opined.

Rick mussed up her hair.

“Carl isn’t though,” Sophia said. “He’s kind of a drag.”

“I thought we were going to get to meet your girlfriend,” said Annette.

Rick looked directly at Daryl—as if he knew exactly where he’d been all along.

Daryl froze, knowing he’d been caught staring.

Carol came in for a hug and Rick’s arms went around her. “Jessie’s in Virginia,” Rick told Annette, but then he was looking at Daryl again, over Carol’s head.

Rick gave him one of his slow nods. 

Daryl gave a quick nod back.

Pulling away from Carol, Rick looked down at her and smiled.

*

The food was good. Annette and Patricia had cooked; Hershel carved the turkey. Sophia made Daryl sit next to her with Beth on her other side, and Carol sat on Daryl’s other side. They had to go around and say what they were thankful for; Daryl said grub and Sophia said, “Birds. I mean, to eat,” and Beth said hair dye. Glenn said Maggie, and Maggie said, “I don’t know who this dork is.” Rick said the weather and everyone gave him hell for it; Carol said freedom and they all did a toast.

“You ain’t grateful for squirrel?” Daryl asked, leaning in toward Sophia when everybody else started talking politics and real estate.

Sophia shrugged. “Squirrels are okay.”

“I mean to eat,” said Daryl.

Sophia almost spit her milk. “That’s disgusting.”

“Squirrel can be delicious,” said Beth, politely eating mashed potatoes.

Sophia had just picked up her fork; now she clattered it on her plate. “You’ve eaten _squirrel_?”

“Literally you say that every time I say something country.” Beth took another bite. “I ain’t from the city.”

“I do not literally say ‘you eat squirrel’ every time you say something country.”

“Squirrel’s a redneck delicacy,” Daryl told Sophia.

“You can even put it in a pie.” Beth reached for her milk.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Sophia,” said Carol, leaning in across Daryl.

“What, Mom?” said Sophia. “They’re shitting me.”

“No, it’s true,” said Rick. “You can put squirrel in a pie.”

“See?” Beth sipped her milk. “Rick’s a cop. He wouldn’t tell a lie.”

“No,” Rick agreed. “I wouldn’t.”

Daryl couldn’t look at him.

*

After dinner they had drinks in the living room, talking about the farm and Carol’s divorce and the state of the nation and the price of eggs. At some point Sophia had slipped away, so while all of them were talking about _Lord of the Rings_ Daryl got out too.

When he found her, she was on the floor in the corner of the study reading a book. He slid down the wall to sit beside her.

Sophia turned a page. “Otis gave it to me,” she said. “It’s a book on hunting.”

“Uh-huh,” said Daryl.

“All those people make me tired. Like, I like them.” She turned another page. “They just make me tired.”

“You want me to go?”

“No.”

They sat there for a while, Sophia just reading her book. Daryl looked over her shoulder, but the room was sorta dark and the pages were too far away. He had to have glasses for reading, not that he’d ever tell anybody.

“I wish we could go hunting,” Sophia said presently.

“Too late.”

“I know. But I wish we could.”

Daryl thought for a while. “We could play poker.”

She looked up at him, eyes widening slightly. “I don’t have any money.”

Daryl shrugged. “Just need something to count with.”

“I know!” Jumping up, Sophia let the book thump to the floor. While Daryl picked it up, she went over to the desk, grabbed a pad of paper. “There are cards around here somewhere,” she added.

After a few minutes, Sophia’d torn up lots of bits of paper, and he’d taught her about straights and flushes.

“There you are,” said Beth, after another fifteen minutes. “Don’t y’all need a light?”

“Me and Daryl can see in the dark,” said Sophia.

“Uh-huh.” Beth flicked the light on, coming farther into the room. “What y’all doing?”

“Poker.” Drawing herself up, Sophia squared her shoulders.

Beth glanced down. “Texas Hold ‘Em?”

Sophia’s shoulders drooped. “You already know how?”

“Told you I ain’t a city gal,” Beth said, sitting down on the floor where they were playing.

“You can play poker in the city.” Sophia huffed.

“Deal me in,” said Beth. 

They played a few hands—not very good ones, since Sophia was still learning and Beth bet like a newbie. On the fourth game, Daryl was the dealer and folded before the flop. When Sophia scooted closer to him, Daryl put his arm around her. “What should I do?” she asked, showing him her cards.

Not wanting to give anything away, Daryl leaned in to whisper in her ear. Sophia bet high.

“That’s a bluff,” Beth said. “Raise you four.”

Sophia looked up at Daryl. “Yeah,” he said, and Sophia called.

One-handed, Daryl dealt out the next card, which gave Sophia a full house. “What do I do?” Sophia said.

“Ain’t your turn, baby,” Daryl told her. “Let Beth go.” But then he leaned down in her ear again to point out Beth probably only had two pair.

“You two are conspiring,” said Beth, tapping to show she checked.

“We’re conspirers,” Sophia said, pushing out some of her money. “Raise you ten.”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Daryl pet his hand over Sophia hair, like he’d seen her momma sometimes do.

Beth made an aggravated sound. “Bet you got the full house. I call.”

“Okay, last one,” Daryl said, dealing out the river.

“Shit,” said Beth.

“Yeah, what you gonna do with that two pair now, huh?” Sophia teased.

“I ain’t got two pair!”

“Put your money in, darlin’,” Daryl said.

Sophia shoved in her whole pile. “We wiped the floor with you.”

Rolling her eyes, Beth tossed in her cards. “Okay, yeah, you did.”

“You _did_ have two-pair!” Sophia cackled, as Beth turned to look at the door.

“Why don’t you join us?” she said.

Daryl arched his head over his shoulder to see who she was looking at.

Rick was leaning against the frame of the door, looking down at them. Beth had obviously startled him, like he hadn’t meant to be seen. Could’ve been there just a few seconds or a whole five minutes.

Daryl moved his arm away from where it’d been curled around Sophia. He’d thought it was just them. Rick pushed himself off the frame, looking awkward. “I—”

“Who’re you talking to?” Glenn poked his head in around Rick. “Oh, hey. What’re you doing?”

“Poker,” said Sophia.

“Really?” Glenn came into the room, Maggie behind him.

“Hold ‘Em,” said Beth.

“I’ve never played,” said Glenn.

“Don’t worry,” Sophia said, drawing herself up again. “Daryl and I can teach you.”

Daryl looked over toward the doorway, but Rick was gone.

*

Maggie, Beth, Glenn, Sophia, and Daryl played poker for several hours. When Sophia was falling asleep on him they finally went back into the living-room. By then Rick had gone.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Sophia said, yawning as he got his coat on to head out.

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “I guess it was.”

*

The next few weeks passed much like the last few. Carol didn’t say anything more about Rick and Daryl didn’t ask, spending most of the time he visited them tracking with Sophia in the woods. Sometimes Carol came with them, not a bad hand at tracking when she was actually trying, but usually she was too busy.

In the middle of December, the Greenes held a party. Daryl didn’t care for parties, wouldn’t’ve gone to another one at the Greene farm if it was just some dumb Christmas celebration, but the party wasn’t about the holidays at all. Carol had finally gotten all the legal shit took care of for her divorce; everything was through, all of it finalized, and Carol already had a bid out on her old house. The Greenes were throwing her a party to celebrate.

“So you have to come,” Carol told him over the phone.

“Do I gotta dress nice?” had been Daryl’s only response.

He did dress nice, or tried to anyway—courtroom pants and shoes, got a new shirt—not a collared one but it had a couple buttons at the top, and it was real soft. _Grow up_ , Carol had told him, and sometimes that meant not wearing leather or a cut, though he didn’t really know why. He didn’t understand most the things that folks did that made them normal.

But he did understand what grown-up was, and as a result of that he was gearing up to a very specific conversation. Just the thought of it made him want to throw up, but he was gonna do it. He was gonna go and he was gonna wear nice things and be there for Carol and say what he had to say, because he knew he had to and thought that he could.

When Daryl got to the farm there were lots of people there, but this time, like Thanksgiving, most of them were familiar. Only a few weren’t: Michonne had her boyfriend Mike. Andrea had a new boyfriend she said was named Philip. Deputy Chambler was there; her first name was Tara and she brought her niece, Meghan. Tyreese brought his sister Sasha. And Rick had his girlfriend with her two kids.

Jessie was drop dead gorgeous, and Daryl understood instantly why Rick had hooked up with her: normal and pretty and a good mom and social and polite and just really nice—everything he wasn’t. Daryl didn’t exactly talk to her but he watched her some, and on top of those other things she was funny and smart. She had kind eyes. She smiled a lot.

_You have to know he’s as straight as the day is long._

Daryl didn’t think Rick had lied to him. Just, Daryl had never really thought about how lonely Rick must have been after the divorce and Judith’s birth. Rick must’ve been looking for someone, wanting someone, and Daryl had been there and maybe he just . . . got confused. And when Daryl had done what he did, said what he had, Rick had snapped out of it, made a better decision, a more normal decision. Found someone he could really be with, someone who could last.

Rick had brought Carl too. With Michonne’s son Andre, Tara’s niece Meghan, and Jessie’s kids Ron and Sam, it wasn’t at all like Thanksgiving, when Sophia hadn’t had any kids to play with. Beth took the kids into the study to play some dumb thing where they put their phones on their heads, and Daryl hovered in the living-room with the adults, looking for his opening and trying not to get wound too tight about what he had to say.

The opening never came, not really. Rick pretty much always had his hand at the small of Jessie’s back. Daryl didn’t wanna pull him away from her, because that wasn’t cool, but finally his insides were so tight he was pretty sure he was gonna puke if he didn’t do it, so he just walked up to Rick.

For the first time all evening, Rick met his eyes.

Daryl nodded over to the porch.

Rick nodded back, and Daryl turned away.

Inside everybody was talking and drinking and laughing; the whole room smelled like stale breath, perfume, and alcohol. Outside, the December air was sharp, a balm after that too-warm closeness. Daryl could see his breath and the stars, white and silver against black. 

A door opened behind him, then closed.

Daryl didn’t turn around. Rick didn’t hate him so much that he wouldn’t come up and stand beside him.

After a moment, boards in the porch creaked, then Rick was there—pale and a little tired. He set a whiskey on the balustrade, looking out at the night instead of at Daryl. He was still clean-shaven, lips still real soft, jaw still firm, eyelashes still too long. 

Daryl looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush.

“Yeah.” Slowly, Rick turned to look at him. “I know.”

“I shouldn’t’ve said those things to you,” Daryl went on. “I shouldn’t’ve . . .” But there was so much he shouldn’t’ve done, so much he couldn’t actually remember that he had done, that he couldn’t finish.

“No,” said Rick. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Daryl ducked his head. Beside him, he heard Rick take a breath—then a hand was on his shoulder, squeezing, oh God, just like he used to do. “You’re okay,” said Rick. “We’re okay.”

Daryl turned to look at him, but Rick was already turning away, hand sliding off him. Picking up the whiskey, he headed back into the house.

Daryl took a great big gulp of air. Then another. Another and another and another. He’d said what he had meant to but didn’t know what he felt about it, about what Rick had said. Rick had been kinder than Daryl had any right to expect, and yet Daryl wished Rick had looked at him. Just looked at him a little more.

Still too warm, Daryl felt trapped in his nice clothing, trapped on this porch, halfway between civilization and the wild. He didn’t wanna leave and he didn’t want to stay. His chest hurt. He needed to smoke.

Eventually the cold seeped through his clothes to his overheated skin. He was gonna get too cold eventually; he could go and get a jacket. Instead, he sat down on the balustrade, feet up along it, leaning back on one of the posts and looking at the stars.

When the door opened again he went stiff, half hoping for Rick, knowing it wouldn’t be. Probably Carol. He was bumming out on her party.

But Carol didn’t come up beside him. Instead, it was Carl.

Daryl eyed him, a trifle warily, wondering whether Rick had sent him.

“Hey,” Carl said. “What were you looking at?”

“Stars.” Daryl turned back to them.

For a moment, Carl looked too. Then, “Are you and my dad fighting?”

“No.”

“Because you came to his apartment that one time but you didn’t come again.”

Orion was so bright Daryl could see the sword easily.

“Not while I was around, anyway.” Carl turned to him. “Did my dad do something stupid?”

“No,” said Daryl.

“He’s always messing things up.”

Slowly, Daryl turned to look at him. Carl looked angry, but then again Carl had looked angry all three times Daryl had seen him. “Your dad didn’t mess up nothing.”

“Yeah, with you, maybe.”

“Man, why do you talk about him like that?”

Carl sneered. “You don’t know. You don’t know what he did.”

“You mean when your mom hooked up with his best friend? Yeah, I know what he did.”

“He just rolled over!” Carl gestured wildly into the night, pale arm a stick against the dark. “He didn’t want to keep us together. He didn’t try—”

“Man.” Daryl put his feet down on the porch. “Shut up.”

Carl’s mouth snapped shut.

“What do you think this is?” Daryl said. “Fallout? You think we’re on the high seas, we’re at war, we’re in Afghanistan? If this was 1853, yeah, maybe. Stand and fight for your woman, go right ahead.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Sounded like it. You want him to fight? That’s not what a man does. You don’t stake your claim, take take take, every man out for himself. You have to work with other people; you listen and you back down. That’s the man your dad is and that’s—” Daryl stopped, hearing his voice break. “That’s what’s right.”

“Sophia’s mom shot her dad.”

“That’s different.”

“How? She fought for something; Carol fought. I don’t mean Dad should’ve shot Shane or anything, but at least he could’ve tried to—”

“Your dad ever hit you?”

Carl tilted his head, jaw tight—same look as Rick only smaller, more vulnerable. Eyes blue like his daddy, too. “No,” Carl said finally.

“That’s right.” Daryl took a step toward him, looked down at him. “He’d probably choke on his own breath before he ever laid a single hand on you. You know what? Shane probably would too; I don’t care what he did with your ma. Rick never would’ve left his wife with him, let alone his kids, if that weren’t the case. That ain’t what Carol was up against.”

“What was she up against?”

“The worst kind of thing,” Daryl said, turning away.

“Because Sophia’s dad was hitting her?”

Daryl sat back on the balustrade, unsure when he’d even stood up. Brought his foot up on it, looked back out at the stars. 

Probably shouldn’t’ve said all that. Especially to Rick’s kid. Probably inappropriate, somehow. 

For a minute, Carl looked out too. Daryl had no idea why he was still there.

“You’re right,” Carl said finally. “Shane would never hurt us. I used to like him, but . . .” He shrugged. “That was when I didn’t know he was sleeping with my mom.” Carl looked over at him. “Did you know they did it while Dad was in a coma?”

This was probably _really_ inappropriate. Daryl wanted a cigarette more than ever.

“I’m not sure they even know Judith is really his.”

“She’s your sister,” Daryl said, because the idea that Rick might not be sure broke his fucking heart.

Carl tilted his head again. “You’re saying you wouldn’t fight? If someone macked on your wife?”

“I ain’t got a wife.”

“Right,” said Carl. “But if you did.”

Daryl rolled the back of his head against the porch post. Sorta wanted to thump his skull against it hard, just to feel the pain, but Carl’d probably think he was a freak. “I ain’t Rick,” he said finally.

“So you _would_ fight.”

Daryl closed his eyes. “Who knows what I would do? I’m a fuckup.”

“Dad says you’re the best man he knows.”

Daryl’s heart skipped. He opened his eyes. “When’d he say that?”

Carl shrugged. “Earlier tonight.”

Jesus Christ.

“Well,” Daryl said, struggling to breathe, “I ain’t.”

“But Dad says you are,” Carl said, “and Dad never likes anyone. I think the only two friends he had were Mom and Shane.”

 _Stop it_ , Daryl wanted to growl, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t resist, still couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t stop Carl from saying these things. Couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What about Jessie?”

Carl hitched a shoulder, a lazy shrug. “She’s okay. Ron’s kind of a dick, though.”

“How come you don’t like him?” Daryl asked, just to get farther away from the goddamn subject at hand.

“Kinda acts like a know-it-all.”

“Pfft. Not like anyone else I know.”

Lifting his chin, Carl looked at him thoughtfully. “You don’t talk to me like I’m a kid.”

“You’re thirteen. Gotta wait until you’re twenty-one?”

“Fourteen, actually.” Absently, Carl tapped the balustrade. “So, you gonna come to my dad’s apartment?”

Daryl turned to stare at him.

“It’s boring when I visit him,” Carl said, as if in explanation.

“Man, didn’t I tell you to stop saying bad shit about him?”

Carl kept tapping the balustrade. “You think he’s pretty great, huh?”

Daryl ducked his head. Shrugged. Wasn’t fair to cop out, though, not when Carl needed to hear people say it. “People owe your dad a lot,” Daryl said. “Carol, Sophia. Your dad is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“He’s still boring.”

“Carl,” said a voice from the house.

Startled, Daryl looked over. Jessie was standing there, still so pretty, wearing her nice black dress with her necklace and her hair down. Daryl couldn’t tell what she’d heard.

“Your dad’s been looking for you,” said Jessie.

“Yeah,” Carl told her, sounding just like Rick. “Okay.”

Jessie went back in the house, and Carl turned back toward Daryl. “Are you coming in?”

“In a minute.”

Carl shrugged again, went back inside to all the talking, laughing people.

Daryl wanted to let the dark envelope him. He wanted to be surrounded by dirt and grass and trees. That old thing about if no one was there to hear it, did a falling tree make a sound—without anyone there to witness it, everything was nothing. All the world out there was nothing, and he wanted to be nothing with it—not seeing it or touching it or hearing it, so the trees and grass and things could all be nothing, no one seeing touching hearing him, so he could just be nothing.

Daryl put both feet on the porch, stood up. 

_My dad says you’re the best man he knows._

He walked across the porch, opened the door, and went back inside to all the people.


	7. Chapter 7

Carol and Sophia came to the trailer for Christmas Eve and stayed for Christmas. The Greenes were very generous, Carol said, but she wanted them to have time with just their family. Daryl guessed she knew he’d go nuts trying to make sure the place was okay for them for Christmas.

“I thought you needed something to do,” she told him innocently, when he accused her of trying to keep him busy.

“Well, I’m not fucking baking cookies.”

“That’s okay.” She’d patted his knee. “You can help us decorate them.”

He’d gotten Sophia a compound bow, which Carol said she absolutely positively was not allowed to use until Daryl taught her how to use it, and they went to see one of Sophia’s _Twilight_ things on Christmas Day.

“You like it?” he said, as the three of them walked out.

“I don’t know,” said Sophia. “I guess I’m getting old.”

“Pfft.” He mussed her hair just like he’d seen Rick do at Thanksgiving.

“I’m just not sure there’s been enough character development,” said Sophia.

“Who cares?” said Daryl. “What about all them hot vampires hooking up?”

Carol hit him on the arm. 

“Ow,” said Daryl. He’d gotten her rubber gloves for Christmas, and a new gun.

He’d spent a lot of money.

Carol’d gotten him a leather jacket that didn’t fit right, and Sophia had given him a rabbit fur. “I had to have Otis help me skin it,” Sophia had explained. “It was really gross.” 

Glenn gave him a game called Skyrim and Andrea sent him a card. Daryl had never had so many things at Christmas. The guys at the garage had even gotten him nicotine gum, which was a joke, but it was kinda neat they’d thought of it, nevertheless. He’d put a little tree in the living-room of the trailer, lights up around the gutters.

“Place looks nice,” Carol told him.

It _was_ nice, all of it. Best Christmas he’d ever had.

Rick called two days later.

*

When Daryl saw the caller ID on his phone he stood up very quickly. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely press the button, but he got it pressed, brought the phone up to his ear. “Rick.” He tried to say it carefully, but it came out rough, more of a croak than anything else.

A long pause followed. In it, Daryl tried not to breathe too hard.

“Carl’s been asking about you,” Rick said finally.

Tension seized at Daryl’s neck, winding slowly down his spine. At least it stilled his shaking hands. Daryl had no idea what Carl would’ve chosen to say about their conversation out on the porch.

“Listen,” said Rick. “I never meant to . . .”

A long pause. Daryl didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t want to stop being friends with you.”

“Sorry,” Daryl blurted, because he was the one who’d called Rick a faggot, and all those other things.

“I should’ve called you,” Rick said.

Daryl swallowed hard.

“We’re going out on New Year’s Day,” said Rick. “Jessie and her kids, Carl, and me. I wanted—I thought maybe you could join us. If you want.” Rick just sounded so stiff. Stiff and uncomfortable, in a way he’d never been with Daryl.

Daryl was holding the phone so tightly he was afraid he might break it, but if he loosened his grip at all, his hand was so sweaty the phone might fall out.

“I know you probably have plans,” Rick said, after a long pause, “but I thought if you didn’t . . . It’s a lot of people, and you don’t know Jessie or her kids, but I wanted . . . Carl asked about you, and I thought if you didn’t have plans yet—”

“Yes,” said Daryl, realizing Rick was going on in this way because Daryl actually hadn’t said it yet. “Yeah. I wanna.”

“Good,” said Rick.

God, he used to say that all the time. Daryl closed his eyes, savoring it. 

_My dad says you’re the best guy he knows._

“We’re going to Red Robin,” Rick said. “It’s the only place Sam will eat.”

“Okay. It fancy?”

A pause. “It’s Red Robin.”

“I ain’t never been,” Daryl said, feeling like he’d asked a stupid question. “Don’t go out much,” he added, hoping to explain.

“No,” Rick said, after another long moment. He sounded strange. “It’s not fancy.” 

“Okay.”

“We’re going at six-thirty.”

“Okay.”

“Want to meet us there? It’s at the Shoppes. On Web Gin and 124. You know where that is?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” said Rick.

Daryl literally held his breath for the next ten seconds.

“I’ll see you then,” Rick said, then hung up.

*

Red Robin wasn’t nice but it wasn’t un-nice. Seemed sorta like a Chili’s, which was nicer than Denny’s but not as nice as like, Outback. Daryl’d never been able to gauge these things, having gotten fast food and cheap take-out with Merle most of his life; he knew Rick thought he was ignorant for not knowing whether you had to dress up for Red Robin. Anyway, Daryl hadn’t worn jeans and he’d bought yet another shirt, because he’d wanted Jessie to think he was all right.

He was a little early, so he stood outside the restaurant, chewing his nicotine gum, which he swallowed when Rick got there. Rick didn’t have his soccer-mom Subaru; instead he had an old beat-up Honda Civic that made Daryl pretty depressed about the state of the world. They walked up to the curb to meet him, Rick with his hand on the small of Jessie’s back. Jessie smiled, putting out her hand, which Daryl shook. “I think we met at Carol’s party,” she said, “but there were so many people there.”

Rick nodded at him so Daryl nodded too; then Carl tried to nod at him. “Pfft,” Daryl told him, making a face at him. Rick and Jessie had already turned to go into the restaurant.

“Pfft yourself,” said Carl.

“This is my favorite restaurant,” Sam told him, and they went inside.

Jessie and Sam talked a lot, Carl and Ron less so, Rick not at all. Daryl wanted to be polite, so he spoke up when spoken to, but otherwise he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why he was here, really. He worried it wouldn’t be what Rick wanted, but then again, who knew what Rick wanted. Daryl may’ve been a complete and total asshole that night at the park, but he hadn’t been mistaken when he’d said Rick kept things to himself.

Carl had been talking about him, Rick had said. He didn’t know if Daryl had New Year’s plans, Rick had said. _I didn’t want to stop being friends_ , Rick had said.

This was what being friends meant, Daryl guessed. Rick wanted someone who was good with his whole family, and even though Daryl wasn’t good with family, Rick thought he was good enough to be here. Daryl was trying.

“Carl says you’ve done meth,” Ron said, once the waiter had come and taken all their orders.

“Ron!” said Jessie, appalled.

“What?” said Ron. “He did.”

Rick’s hand curled into a fist on the table, and Daryl didn’t know what to say.

“Not at the dinner table,” said Jessie.

“But did you?” Ron asked Daryl. “Use meth?”

“Jesus, Ron, don’t be a dick,” said Carl.

“You’re the one who told me,” said Ron.

“That’s enough,” said Jessie.

“Dad says judge people by what they do,” Carl told Ron.

This was a bad idea.

This was a bad idea, Daryl sitting here with this family when he didn’t fit in; why had Rick even wanted this? Daryl wanted to go, but he knew it’d be rude, and he knew Rick wasn’t about to say _you sit down_ , not in front of all these people. Anyway Rick was just sitting there like he was frozen—fist still on the table, jaw tight, not quite looking at anyone. Like there was a wall around him, a shell.

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of what he could say to diffuse the situation that wasn’t about how much meth he’d done.

“What’s meth?” asked Sam.

“Sam,” said Jessie, helplessly.

“Methamphetamine,” Rick said, and for some reason him saying it when he hadn’t said much of anything so far except _I’ll have a burger_ made everything seem quiet. “It’s a stimulant that affects the central nervous system. I’m a cop. You wanna meet drug addicts?” He turned to Ron. “I can take you to meet drug addicts. Daryl’s not one of them.”

“I told you like a million other things,” Carl told Ron. “Like how he uses a crossbow and rides a motorcycle and knows the pizza man. Why’d you have to pick out that one thing?”

Ron looked at Daryl. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding really sorry.

Daryl shrugged, mostly because he couldn’t slink under the table and die. “S’okay.”

“What do you do, Daryl?” Jessie said, obviously trying to change the subject. She took a great big gulp of water.

“Mechanic,” said Daryl.

“Oh,” said Jessie. “Like cars?”

“Yeah.”

She gave him this encouraging look, her sweet eyes and her pink little mouth, but he didn’t know what else he was supposed to say. 

“How did you get started doing that?” she said after a long moment in which he failed to keep the conversation going.

Daryl shrugged.

The silence went on again, and he realized she was still waiting for an answer. Didn’t a shrug mean _I don’t know_? What, was that not universally agreed upon rule of conversation? Did he have to fail at every single aspect of communication, not just the ones that included meth?

“Mom’s a hair-cutter,” said Sam.

Jessie smiled. “Stylist.”

There were universally agreed upon rules of conversation, all right; he just couldn’t remember them all. He should’ve asked her what her job was right after she asked him. “Yeah?” Daryl finally said, because she was so nice and had encouraged him, and maybe if he encouraged her he wouldn’t have to talk.

“Yeah, that was how I met this guy.” Jessie ran her slender, feminine hand up Rick’s neck, through his hair—his shorn curls. “He came in with this mountain-man beard. You should’ve seen it.”

“Yeah.” Daryl looked away. “I seen it.”

He could feel Rick looking at him.

“I’ve never seen so much hair,” said Jessie. Out of his peripheral, Daryl could see that her hand was still in it, playing with what curls were left. “But now it looks real good, doesn’t it?”

Daryl licked his lips. “Yeah.”

Taking her hand out of Rick’s hair, Jessie turned back to Daryl. “I could cut yours if you wanted.”

“He doesn’t need a haircut,” Rick said, his voice almost sharp.

“Oh.” Jessie’s eyes went wider. “I just—I just meant a little trim. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Daryl shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

“I’m not cutting my hair,” said Carl.

“What do you mean?” said Ron.

“I’m gonna grow it longer,” said Carl.

“You’ll look like a girl,” said Ron.

Carl turned to him. “Daryl doesn’t look like a girl.”

“Yeah, but he’s old,” said Ron.

“Not that old,” said Carl.

“How old are you?” Sam piped up.

Daryl looked at him, his silly bowl-cut his mom must’ve done and his pasty face, eyes too big. “Sixty-two,” said Daryl.

Sam’s eyes got big. “No way.”

The food came and they ate, the conversation a little less awkward. Sam kept asking him how old he really was; Ron asked Daryl about his crossbow; Carl told Ron he was a tool like five times, and Jessie kept trying to make Sam chew his food. No one talked about meth or anything else like that, and the food was pretty good.

Afterwards when they were leaving the restaurant, Jessie was trying to get Sam to put on his coat, Ron and Carl were arguing about whether Call of Duty was lame, and Rick pulled Daryl back by the elbow. Startled, Daryl stopped walking with them, turning back to Rick.

“I’m sorry,” said Rick.

“What?” Daryl’s full stomach dropped.

“I shouldn’t’ve done this,” said Rick.

Biting his lip, Daryl nodded. “Okay.” Tried not to duck his head, nodded again. “Sorry.”

“Christ. That’s not what I meant.”

Rick sounded so disgusted Daryl looked up.

“I want you around,” said Rick. “I want you around and I didn’t want you to think I was—I didn’t mean to make it awkward for you.”

Daryl’d thought he’d done pretty well.

Rick said, frustrated, “I just wanna go back to how it was before.” 

Daryl looked at him through his bangs. Rick looked tired—soft smudges under his eyes, his skin a little pale. He was too thin. “We can,” Daryl told him.

Rick just looked at him.

Daryl’s mouth started going dry. Drier and drier, and Rick just kept looking. Daryl’s throat was parched. “Rick,” Daryl finally said, his voice breaking slightly.

“Y’all coming?”

Turning away, Rick looked over at Jessie. “Yeah,” he said again, in a completely different way, then went to join the group.

Daryl followed him into the parking lot. When he broke away to go to his truck, Jessie shook his hand again. “It was so nice getting a chance to talk to you,” she said.

“Happy 2012, Daryl!” said Sam.

“Happy 2012,” said Daryl.

*

When Daryl got home from Red Robin he already knew what was going to happen. Avoiding it was useless. His only option was to delay for as long as possible, so he washed the dishes. Did the laundry. Folded socks. Had his shower, hands splayed against the wall, letting cold water pour over him. Brushed his teeth. Cut his toenails. Put on his boxers. Set his alarm. Got in bed. Closed his eyes.

And there was Rick.

Without Jake to get him off and without anything else to satiate his need, Daryl always thought of Rick when he got like this.

He knew that it was wrong. He should’ve gone back to that gay bar. He should’ve tried to date, like Carol said. He should’ve done something, anything but this—his hand going down to his boxers. His fingers wrapping around his dick. His brain replaying memories and fantasies that should have been pure, but never were:

Rick at Thanksgiving, leaning against the doorframe, watching them play poker.

Rick at Carol’s party, his hand on Daryl’s shoulder, _We’re okay._

Rick tonight, his fist on the table, his hand on Daryl’s elbow, _I want you around._

A crazy crash of moments that were not connected in any way: Rick’s throat as he drank, Rick’s eyes as he shot Merle’s gun, Rick’s hand in Sophia’s hair, the suppleness of Rick’s cowboy boots, _he doesn’t need a haircut_ , teasing about hot chocolate, _you make me feel like I can breathe._

_My dad says you’re the best guy he knows._

_I just wanna go back to how it was before._

_I like both._

_I like both._

_I like both I like both I like both._

Daryl replayed it until he came: Rick’s hand on his elbow. Rick’s eyes staring straight into him. 

_I just wanna date you._

*

It didn’t go back to how it was before. But it got close.

Rick started calling again, asking Daryl once or twice a week back to that bar they used to go to. Silence filled a lot of that time together, but after the first time or two it went back to comfortable silence instead of awkward. They spent the time drinking companionably or playing pool. Sometimes they watched stupid stuff on the bar’s half-broken television. 

Daryl talked about helping Carol look for a job and a new place to live and teaching Sophia to hunt. Beth was teaching Sophia to ride, which Daryl had no idea how to do and he was fine with that, but Sophia seemed to think Beth should teach him too. Beth teased him for being scared of it for so long that he finally capitulated. Rick said he could ride as well and could help out if Daryl wanted.

Moving his shoulders like he didn’t care too much, Daryl said, “If you’ve got time.”

Rick did his smile, slight curve of those soft lips. “I’ve got time,” he said.

Daryl’s neck went so hot he had to look away.

At first Rick hadn’t talked that much about Carl like he used to, but after that he started up again. He’d never talked about Lori or Shane all that much to begin with, but Daryl had guessed that was because of what had happened with them, but he didn’t talk about Jessie neither unless Daryl asked. Daryl made a point to ask. He didn’t want Rick to think he was jealous or that he didn’t care about the people in Rick’s life, because he did.

Rick didn’t say all that much about her, just she was good or she was visiting her mom in Virginia.

They never talked about that evening in the park.

Until the night they did.

It happened toward the end of January. They were at the bar again; Daryl had asked about Jessie.

“She’s got this ex-husband,” Rick began, but he didn’t finish. Instead he had a sip of whiskey, which Daryl had noticed Rick had gone back to drinking instead of beer. Drank a lot of it too, but never seemed drunk. “I don’t actually wanna talk about it,” Rick said finally, and took another sip.

Daryl nodded to show that was okay and he didn’t think nothing of it, when Rick said, “How about yours?”

Daryl looked at him in confusion.

“That night,” Rick said, very carefully, “at the park. You said I never asked. So I’m asking.”

_Asked what?_ Panic rose up from Daryl’s stomach; he didn’t know how to explain to Rick that he’d lost his mind that night at the park. He’d lost his mind and he didn’t even know why. He’d lost it because someone had offered him a good thing—such a good thing—and Daryl didn’t know what to do with good things; he ruined them.

_Asked what?_ was all Daryl could think, because he couldn’t remember a single thing he’d said except that all of it was bad.

“You said you had someone,” Rick said, his brows pulled together. “So I’m asking how he is.”

Well, shit.

Goddamn.

Why on Earth Daryl would’ve phrased letting Jake fuck him as “having someone”, he had no idea—except he did have an idea, and a pretty good one at that: the last thing he’d ever wanted to be was all those things that Jake had called him. Slut, whore, easy. A cheater. Daryl swallowed hard. “I ain’t,” he croaked, then tried again. “We ain’t together.”

“You’re not seeing anybody?”

Daryl shook his head.

Rick’s hand tightened around his glass. “When did that happen?”

Daryl didn’t want to be talking about Jake with Rick, but Rick was asking, so Daryl thought about the last time he’d had sex. The stupid bed on fire. “Months ago,” Daryl said, his throat real dry.

Rick threw back the whiskey all in one go.

It was kind of a lot of whiskey.

For a few minutes neither of them said anything, Daryl desperately uncomfortable and not knowing what he could say to fix it. Thinking of Jake made him feel guilty now, considering those things Jake had said about him. No self-respecting person would be with someone who had called them those things, and Daryl couldn’t help but think he’d somehow made Rick angry.

Rick ordered another whiskey, but then didn’t touch it. Another five minutes passed.

“I’ve got some things to take care of,” Rick said abruptly. His barstool made a scraping sound against the floor as he stood, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Sorry,” Daryl said, not quite knowing why.

Rick’s eyes shot up from his wallet with this _look_. “Just for once in your goddamn life,” he said softly, “stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fucking fault.” Throwing a few bills on the bar, he turned and walked away.

*

Carol got a job offer to be a receptionist for a duct cleaning company a few days later. The pay was good and it had benefits, so she took it. Once it started, Daryl went over for a few evenings to make sure she was doing good with the job and Sophia was getting home after school okay. Other than that, time seemed to pass real slow, because Rick didn’t call that whole week. Or the next.

Rick had said it wasn’t his fault, but Daryl couldn’t help but feel like _something_ was his fault. Like maybe he should’ve kept Rick apprised of the whole Jake situation. Like he never should’ve been with Jake in the first place. Like he should’ve known better, which he had. Like Rick cared, which Rick did, which Daryl had also known. He’d _known_ Rick considered him a friend, known Rick thought he was better and worth more than Jake. Daryl had known Carol thought that too, but he’d gotten back together with Jake after the trial anyway.

Because Daryl had to get fucked. With him, everything was always about getting fucked. 

Even when he was a kid and getting his ass beat, it was about looking like a girl, being a sissy. Boys had looked at him and he had known they were looking and he’d looked at them back. Merle had known and tried to beat it out of him. Pop had known and tried to beat it out of him.

Dad had tried very hard to make him not be a sissy.

Daryl had ended up one anyway.

Rick didn’t mind. He’d shown he hadn’t minded; he’d _said_ he hadn’t minded with his _I like both_ ; it shouldn’t be such a big deal but somehow it still was. It still was.


	8. Chapter 8

After three weeks, Rick and Daryl met at the bar. Rick had called and asked him for another drink, as though no more than a few days had passed.

It was early on a Friday night. When Rick came in he wasn’t freshly shaven—stubble denser than a five o’clock shadow but not quite a beard yet. Few days old, Daryl guessed. Rick looked tired.

“Hey,” Rick said, when he saw Daryl. Slid into the stool next to him and looked up at the bartender. “Whiskey, neat,” he said, and the bartender went to get one.

Daryl waited, but Rick didn’t say nothing. Nothing about why it’d been so long or anything, just sat there fucking exhausted with his blue fucking eyes, staring straight forward. Then the whiskey came. Rick took a sip. “I broke up with Jessie,” he said.

The penny finally dropped.

Rick stared straight forward and kept drinking his whiskey.

Daryl knew what it meant. He knew what it meant because he was not an idiot, Rick saying it that way. Rick finding out Daryl was single and then gone for three weeks and then coming back and that being the first thing he said. Daryl wasn’t an idiot; he just didn’t believe it. Like what if it just hadn’t worked out and Rick was having a tough time with it and that’s why Daryl hadn’t seen him, why he looked like he’d been run over by a truck, and he’d called Daryl because he needed someone to talk about it with. Needed someone whose first thought wasn’t, _he could fuck me._

_Now he’s free to fuck me._

Daryl downed his whiskey. Drank it all in one go, just as Rick had done that other night, before his _things to take care of_ , then immediately ordered another.

Rick ordered another one too.

Daryl drank the second down and ordered a third, fixing to do something stupid. He was gonna do something real goddamn stupid.

Rick finished his second and got a third too.

They were on their fourth when Rick got up to go to the bathroom, and Daryl still didn’t know what he was gonna do, just that he was fixing to and fuck the consequences. He’d never been good at thinking about consequences anyway. He was too keyed up to think about consequences. He was too keyed up to think about anything except Rick in the men’s room—

And then he thought about Rick in the men’s room.

The restroom in the bar was just a single. They’d been in this bar so much Daryl knew exactly what it looked like, could picture the lone toilet and the stained sink, slide lock on a door that had been painted half a million times to cover up graffiti. The floor tiles and the mirror. The size of it.

Rick and his _I broke up with Jessie_ and his _I like both_. Could be he’d gone in there on purpose—but Rick wouldn’t. He wasn’t dirty enough for that. He wasn’t nasty enough for that.

But Daryl was.

When he took the fourth slug of whiskey, he wasn’t even thinking. He didn’t fucking care, because this could be his only chance. Rick could wake up in the morning and think, _what was I thinking?—_ or maybe Rick had never even been thinking it to begin with. 

Maybe Rick was in there taking a piss and washing his hands just like a good little scout; maybe it’d never even crossed Rick’s mind. Maybe that evening in the park he’d been saying he wanted to hold hands and skip; who the fuck knew what. It didn’t matter. Rick was single and at one point in time, he’d wanted Daryl enough to ask for it. What really mattered here was Daryl would never have the balls to do this again.

He walked over to the men’s room. Tried the door. 

It was locked, but by that point it didn’t matter. He waited.

Thirty seconds passed. 

The door opened. Daryl pushed his hand on it hard, forcing the door back toward Rick. “What—?” said Rick, stumbling backward. He’d really been taking a piss, then, not waiting. Daryl still didn’t care. He slipped inside.

Closed the door. Locked it. Grabbed Rick and pushed him up against it.

Rick stared at him. “Daryl—”

This might be his only chance.

Breath hitching, Daryl’s hands went for Rick’s buckle, fumbling a second before he got it, slid the belt out, got it open. Then he found the button of Rick’s jeans.

“Jesus,” Rick said. “Daryl, wait—”

Rick’s hands touched Daryl’s wrists but Daryl was already yanking Rick’s jeans down, reaching into his underwear—

“Shit.” Rick’s head thumped against the door. 

—taking out Rick’s cock. Rick wasn’t hard but he was getting there.

Daryl dropped down to his knees.

“Wait,” Rick said again, reaching for him, hand scrambling in Daryl’s hair.

Daryl swallowed him in one go.

“Fuck!” Rick’s hand twisted in his hair, yanking backward even as he arched, hips thrusting forward off the door, then snapping back. “Fuck,” he breathed again, weakly, as Daryl pulled back and then slid back down. Rick tugged his hair, feebly, as though to pull Daryl’s mouth off of it.

Daryl wasn’t going anywhere, because Rick’s cock was in his mouth.

Rick’s cock was in his mouth.

Rick’s cock was in his mouth.

Rick and cock, both felt fucking central to Daryl’s existence. He couldn’t stop—not if Rick wanted this, and he so obviously wanted it—now that he had it anyway, had Daryl’s mouth wrapped around him sucking like a fucking pro.

Being a slut had its advantages.

Opening his eyes, Daryl looked up, needing to see Rick wanting it, enjoying it, liking him—and Rick was, he did. His mouth was open, head thrown back, brow knit like he was in pain, slightly. “Oh God,” he said, and licked his lips. “Daryl.”

His hand was still in Daryl’s hair but it’d gone slack—almost petting, like Daryl needed steadying. Rick’s hips had settled down too, glued to the door mostly except for these little jerks—slow little circles that always brought Rick’s hips back to the door and Rick’s cock not nearly far enough down Daryl’s throat.

Daryl was good at this. He was real good. He was used to making Jake completely lose his shit—making Jake yank his hair and fuck his throat so hard Daryl went hoarse. And it weren’t just Jake. Daryl had made guys before Jake do that too, made them feed it to him so hard they completely lost their minds.

And here was Rick with his controlled little circles, petting his hair like he was a goddamn German Shepherd.

Redoubling his efforts, Daryl pulled off, swirled his tongue around the head, got his tongue against the slit, tugged at the head with his lips, goddamn did Rick have a good dick, then went down again.

“Fuck.” Rick banged his head against the door, voice breaking.

And still with his fucking little circles and his fucking petting.

“I’m gonna,” Rick began, his hand sliding down around Daryl’s ear, against his neck. Then he was cupping the base of Daryl’s skull, tugging just ever so slightly. “I’m gonna come,” Rick said.

Bullshit, because Rick wasn’t anywhere near coming, but Daryl could feel Rick’s balls on his chin and Rick was right. They were drawing up tight, and Daryl’s mouth was filling with drool at just the thought of balls on his chin, even while his mouth was full of cock.

Jesus. Rick’s cock.

He was sucking Rick’s cock.

Closing his eyes just to savor it, Daryl tried to go down even farther. Oh God. He never wanted to stop.

“Daryl.” Rick’s hand was tugging now, the base of Daryl’s skull, and Daryl couldn’t figure out why Rick was pulling him _off_ , didn’t he want Daryl to swallow, didn’t he want his come down Daryl’s throat, didn’t he want to make Daryl take it? Even a fucking straight guy would want it by now—“I’m gonna come,” Rick croaked out. “Please.”

So Daryl obeyed, following the direction of Rick’s tugs. Got his hand on it as he slid off—and fuck, Rick’s cock was long, if not as thick as Daryl liked—popped his lips off the tip. Then when Rick was coming, Daryl took it entirely back down.

“Fuck,” Rick said again, in this sad broken way, his head thumping again against the door. His eyes were closed, but Daryl didn’t think Rick hated it. Rick’s hand came out from Daryl’s hair, his other hand coming up to touch Daryl’s cheek, and then Rick was holding Daryl’s face—gently, but his thumbs were coming up to feel the way Daryl’s cheeks were hollowing out, and some men liked that. Some men liked to feel themselves getting sucked; that was okay, as long as Rick didn’t get his fingers dirty from Daryl’s face.

Daryl’d gotten a lot of the come, but there was some in his mouth he couldn’t swallow with Rick’s dick down his throat pouring more down, and he’d felt a hot splash on his cheek. He just didn’t want Rick to accidentally touch it, so once Rick stopped coming Daryl pulled away, a filthy slick trail of come and drool connecting his mouth to Rick’s cock for a second before he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

He needed to wash his face.

He needed not to look at Rick, not even risk the chance of looking him in the eyes.

Then a hand was in his hair and another on his shoulder, yanking straight up. Daryl scrambled to his feet and he didn’t know what was happening; then Rick was spinning him around, slamming him into the door.

Shame flashed through Daryl, stinging hot, and not just because he’d sucked Rick off on a bathroom floor. He knew how hard it was to resist when your entire cock was down someone else’s throat, and he’d done it on purpose. He’d done it fast and quick and dirty so that Rick wouldn’t stop him, and now Rick had realized what he’d done and—

Rick’s mouth smashed up against his. Bit his lips—Rick actually bit Daryl’s lips with his teeth, and when Daryl’s mouth fell open in shock, Rick’s tongue snaked in, forceful and so insistent it felt obscene already, and that was before it started licking all the come off the insides of Daryl’s cheeks.

Christ.

Rick was kissing him.

He was kissing him and just kept kissing him, the filthiest kiss Daryl had ever had. He didn’t even know how many regular kisses he’d ever had; usually kissing was not high on the list of priorities, and as a result—Daryl didn’t know what to do. Just stood there with his mouth hanging opening getting kissed like a goddamn fucking fool.

Rick pulled away, breathing hard, forehead pressed against Daryl’s. He stood there a second, breathing Daryl’s air, then said, “Daryl,” and was kissing him again.

Biting Daryl’s lips again, like he just wanted the quickest entry possible and would literally use his teeth to get it. He’d use everything, kissing like his whole fucking life depended on it, tongue sweeping along Daryl’s gums, stroking along the inside of his cheeks, licking Daryl’s tongue. Daryl breathed through his nose and kept his mouth open, moving his own tongue stupidly when Rick touched it with his.

Rick licked and swallowed Daryl’s spit.

Rick was a goddamn scoundrel.

Then he was pulling away to breathe again, far enough away this time for him to see Daryl’s face—and the come on his cheek.

Seeing him see it, Daryl froze.

Rick leaned in. “Damn,” he breathed. His tongue was hot and wet, licking the come off Daryl’s face.

Daryl shuddered, unable to control it, and then Rick was kissing him again, only this time it was just sweet pecks along Daryl’s cheek, where he’d licked the come off. Soft little kisses.

That wasn’t what you did when you came on someone’s face.

Daryl knew from experience that soft little kisses were not what you did.

Daryl shuddered again, feeling like he was losing control of his own body. He heard himself make a sound and then Rick was kissing his mouth again—slow, this time. Gentle. Exploratory. Tongue licking Daryl’s bitten lips like he was saying sorry, pulling Daryl’s lower lip into his own.

No one had ever done anything like this to him before. Daryl heard himself whimper.

Rick pulled back again. “Put your hands on me,” he said.

Daryl put his hands on him immediately.

Rick went back to that slow, gentle kissing.

Daryl clung to Rick’s hips with both hands like his life depended on it.

Rick pulled away again. “Touch me,” he said, then went back to kissing.

Daryl’s hands went for Rick’s open pants.

“Christ. No.” Pulling away again, Rick put his dick back in his underwear—it wasn’t hard, not so soon, but Daryl could’ve got him there; he knew he could have. But Rick tugged up his jeans, zipped them. Started work fastening the belt.

The moment apart lasted long enough for Daryl to recall once more that they were in a bathroom. He’d gone down on Rick in a bathroom, in a bar, primarily because Rick had told him he’d just broken up with his girlfriend, which Daryl had taken as though it were an invitation. You couldn’t really get sluttier than that.

“Come here,” said Rick, but he didn’t let Daryl go anywhere, because he was crowding him up against the door, kissing him again, knee pushing between Daryl’s own. But then Rick said it again, “Come here,” and put his tongue into Daryl’s mouth so thoroughly that Daryl wanted it to go down his throat. He actually tipped his head back for it, like a girl in a goddamn movie. 

“Do you know how long I’ve fucking wanted you,” Rick said, when he had pulled away again. 

His lips moved to Daryl’s throat, and Daryl thought he was going to shake apart.

Rick just kept kissing him there, his throat, where Daryl was vulnerable and defenseless, and then Rick’s teeth just slowly dragged across Daryl’s jugular. Daryl thought he might be able to come from it, from just the thought of it, just the thought of it and _do you know how long I’ve fucking wanted you._ But Rick just went on, oblivious, licking where his teeth had scraped, that tender skin and then he was sucking—

Daryl arched against Rick’s thigh. Heard himself make a high soft needy sound.

“Yeah,” said Rick, breathing hot air against Daryl’s neck. His hands went down to Daryl’s belt, his mouth sucking Daryl’s throat all over again as he pulled the leather out, made short work of the buckle. Got Daryl’s jeans unbuttoned and unzipped and was reaching in before Daryl came to his senses.

“No,” he said, pulling back as far as he could against the door.

Rick frowned.

“It takes too long,” Daryl blurted.

The frown deepened. “No, because you don’t want it, or no, because it takes too long?”

When Daryl didn’t answer, Rick grabbed the waist of Daryl’s jeans and jerked it toward him, bringing Daryl’s hips closer to him, keeping Daryl’s upper body pinned against the door when he leaned in to put his lips against Daryl’s ear. “I don’t care how long you take,” Rick murmured. “I can go all night.”

“Rick,” Daryl heard himself say, but the voice didn’t sound like his.

“Do you want it?”

Daryl didn’t know what to say, because wanting didn’t really factor into it.

Rick slid his hand into Daryl’s briefs, wrapping around Daryl’s cock. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” Rick said, using his other hand to yank Daryl’s jeans down farther. Daryl couldn’t say no. He wasn’t even sure he could’ve said no if Rick told him to.

Rick got to work on it, his hand warm and solid around Daryl’s cock, and Daryl didn’t know what to do. With Jake, he just tried to get him to do the things Daryl wanted so Daryl could come, which was never a guarantee, tried to goad Jake to be rough enough or say enough to make it happen. But Daryl didn’t want to use Rick like that, and Rick’s lips moved back to Daryl’s throat, the place behind his ear, his jaw. 

It felt like far too much; Daryl had never gotten a hand-job before while getting kissed. He couldn’t concentrate on the feel of Rick’s hand on his cock; Daryl didn’t know what to do with his own hands; his skin felt overheated, raw. Rick’s hand on Daryl’s cock had a firm grip but still far too gentle, stroking at a steady pace but far too slow, everything about it warm and kind and unwavering, just like Rick. 

At this rate, Daryl was never, ever going to come.

Even Rick sucking on Daryl’s neck was considerate, in a way—never sucking quite hard enough or long enough to really bruise, gentle and exploratory rather than the pain or desperation Daryl needed. “Tell me what you like,” Rick whispered in his ear.

Daryl couldn’t think of a single thing he’d less rather do.

_Hit me_ or _choke me_ or _call me a useless fucking whore_ didn’t seem like they’d go over real well. Even Jake had drawn the line at burning him.

“Do you like this?” Rick said, swiping his thumb over the head, wetness at the tip.

Of course Daryl liked it. Who didn’t like someone jacking their cock? He was so fucking hard he could barely stand up straight; he just wasn’t going to fucking _come_. Daryl watched as Rick’s thumb swirled the wetness around, stroking around the head. Watched as Rick made his fingers a ring to slide tightly down Daryl’s cock. The sight was mesmerizing, because it was Rick’s hand on his cock.

Rick’s hand was on his cock.

He needed to concentrate on Rick’s hand on his cock.

Looking away, Daryl closed his eyes and tried to focus on it, the way it felt, the fact that it was Rick.

Rick.

Even if Rick weren’t jacking it hard enough, Daryl had come so many times to thoughts of Rick that he should be able to do it now. He had to do it now. He had to; Rick would think there was something wrong with him if he didn’t. Worse yet, Rick would think there was something wrong with how he was touching him, and Daryl didn’t understand why he couldn’t just come like other people did; think of Rick.

Rick.

Rick with his bow-legs and thick hair and cornflower eyes, the things he said, _you sit down_ and _you make me feel like I can breathe,_ and now, _put your hands on me. Touch me. Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?_

Daryl shuddered, cock jumping.

“Good,” said Rick. “Like that.”

Oh God. Now _that_ —concentrating on the words, Daryl thrust. Rick’s hand was on his balls, squeezing and fondling. _Good. Like that_.

“Like this?” asked Rick, stroking the soft skin, tugging. “This what you want?” Rick added his other hand, one jacking Daryl’s cock, the other at his testicles. “You like this?”

Shit. Daryl had had it but now he’d lost it, hips slowing again.

Closing his eyes and turning his head away again, Daryl tried to imagine Rick was saying something different. _Good, you’re doing so well, such a good—_ With Rick’s hands and the imagined words, the pressure built up again—

“That feel good?” Rick asked.

—and switched off. Daryl felt his balls ease up.

Rick paused, obviously noticing, hands coming away.

Daryl couldn’t look at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I said I had all night,” Rick said sharply. “I’m gonna use it to make you come.”

Like _that_ , just like that, Jesus. Daryl’s cock jumped again. 

Rick put his hand back on it, squeezed. “Good.”

Daryl’s whole body twitched.

Another pause, Rick’s hands not moving on him.

“Rick,” Daryl said, embarrassed.

Rick’s hands went back to work, his palm firm on Daryl’s cock, his other hand squeezing Daryl’s balls. “Good,” Rick said harshly straight into his ear. “I told you you were doing good and I meant it.”

Jesus. Daryl didn’t even care if Rick had figured it out. He writhed.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Rick said. “I want you to just keep going.”

“Oh,” Daryl heard himself say.

Rick said, “You’re doing exactly what I want.”

Daryl couldn’t feel what Rick’s hands were doing. He knew that they were on him, that they were touching him harshly the way he liked, that they were pulling his cock and yanking his balls, but they were like a blur. A rough, desperate abrasion compared to the words Rick had spoken, which were as brilliant and as fucking clear-cut as crystals. Those words were white-hot pleasure in his mind, and Daryl could barely breathe.

“Perfect,” said Rick. “Keep going. You’re perfect.”

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

“Now come in my hand,” Rick told him, so Daryl did it.

He couldn’t see or think and he didn’t need to. _He was doing what Rick wanted,_ hips moving irregularly and cock spurting into Rick’s hand.

Oh God. Rick’s hand. He was gonna get it messy—

Daryl groaned, the last thought causing his cock to give one final jerk as it came, sensitive and raw.

Then he was spent, his breath gone and his throat sore, his cock growing limp and Rick’s hand full of come. Standing here in the bathroom of a bar with Rick Grimes, who’d just broken up with his girlfriend and once had told his son he thought Daryl was the best man he knew.

Running water. Rick was at the dingy sink, washing his spunked-up hand.

Daryl tucked himself back into his briefs, pulled up his jeans. Zip. Button. Belt. He felt empty, the way he always felt after sex—used up and dirty, come and sweat a tacky film on his skin. 

_You’re perfect_.

Nothing was in Daryl’s stomach except whiskey and come—Rick’s come, and nausea edged at his stomach even as his cock gave this pathetic little twitch.

Rick dried his hands, turned back to him, and kissed him again. Kissed him like he’d never wanted to stop kissing in the first place.

_You’re perfect_.

God, the way Rick kissed. He did it with the same intensity with which he did everything, laser focus on just one goal. That goal appeared to be sucking Daryl’s tonsils, because Rick seemed like he wanted to devour him. He’d pull back, breathing hard and pressing his forehead to Daryl’s, and then he’d just swoop in again like two seconds was too much time; he’d never get another chance.

“Daryl,” he’d said, more than once, when he pulled away. His hand was on Daryl’s hip, thumb slipped up under the hem of Daryl’s shirt to touch the bare skin over Daryl’s hip bone. It kept stroking there, again and again, and Daryl felt like it was burning him.

Daryl tried to touch him too, like Rick had said, but when he moved his hands on Rick’s back, it was incredibly clumsy. After a few flimsy attempts, he gave in to instinct, which was to hang on and never let go.

They’d been going like that for nearly five minutes, no words between them other than _Daryl_ , when the knob on the door rattled. 

“Ignore it,” Rick pulled away from him enough to say, and kissed him again.

A minute later, the door rattled again. Then came a knock.

Daryl pulled away. “Rick,” he said breathlessly.

Rick looked at him a second, his eyes so dark and his jaw so hard that something about him looked dangerous. Grabbing Daryl’s arm, he yanked Daryl into the corner. “Stay there,” he said, then went to the bathroom door and slid out the lock, opened the door an inch. “It’s occupied,” Rick told whoever was out there, and then he slammed the door. Throwing the lock in, he turned back to Daryl.

Reached for him. Kissed him.

The knob rattled. Pound, pound, pound on the door.

Daryl tried to pull away, but he was in the corner now. Gave Rick a push, just a little one. “We’re in the men’s room,” he told Rick.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Okay.” Going back to the lock, he slid it, opened the door. “You don’t wanna come in here,” he told whoever was out there. Rick sounded downright rude. “It’s gonna be a while.”

Muffled sound.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “You go get the manager.” Closing the door, he turned back to Daryl. “Count to fifteen, then come after me. You meet me outside.”

“You’re a cop,” said Daryl.

Rick’s jaw tightened.

“We gotta pay,” said Daryl.

Rick’s eyes went soft, and then it was like he couldn’t resist—he came up and kissed him, hard hands on Daryl’s cheeks and tongue pushing its way inside, hungry lips on his. “I’ll pay,” Rick breathed. “Count to fifteen, then meet me.” He kissed him again, rough and quick and really dirty. Then Rick was leaving, closing the door behind him.

One.

Two.

Three.

Anyone seeing them leave the bathroom together would know what they’d been doing.

Five.

Six.

Leaving separately was smart. They wouldn’t get caught.

Eight.

But Rick said he’d wait for him outside.

Ten.

Eleven.

What did he want, what was he gonna say, was he gonna realize what he’d done, _sorry this was all a mistake_ , was he gonna fuck him, how was he gonna fuck him, would it be rough and fast, in his car, over the hood, against the wall, why couldn’t Daryl think straight—

Thirteen.

Even with all that kissing his mouth still tasted a little like Rick’s come.

Fifteen.

Turning the knob, Daryl went out the door. Tried not to look at anybody on the way out—he’d sucked off guys in that other bar, but that was the kind of bar it was. This bar may be kinda shitty but it wasn’t one of those kinds, and Daryl knew he’d done something most people would revile.

Not Rick, though.

Probably not Rick.

Maybe not Rick.

The February night was cool and clear, and Daryl thought about just getting on his motorcycle and driving away forever.

Then Rick was there, tugging on his arm, pulling him around to the side of the bar, then to the back—out of view of the parking lot, back where the deliveries happened, and dumpsters, and raccoons maybe, late at night. Then Rick was kissing him again, pushing forward so Daryl fell back, back all the way up against the wall of the bar.

Rick sure liked to kiss.

Kissing and kissing and kissing. Rick sucked Daryl’s tongue and bit Daryl’s lips, licking Daryl’s teeth, sucking Daryl’s neck, dragging his teeth over it. Rick bit Daryl’s ear, which made Daryl make a sound he didn’t know he could, and in response Rick just pressed his lips behind Daryl’s ear, and kissed. Just kissed and kissed and kissed. 

He even kissed Daryl’s beard. Ran the tip of his tongue over Daryl’s moustache.

The man was obsessed, and his hands just kept touching—all over. Everywhere. Found that bare hipbone again and petted, circled. Slid down to Daryl’s ass and squeezed—kept squeezing, firm and in this rhythmic way until Daryl was humping Rick’s thigh—solid and hard between Daryl’s legs—oh God, this was really bad; he was humping it just like a dog—and then Rick’s hands slid up his waist, just touching, like he couldn’t get enough. Daryl wanted Rick’s hands back on his ass again; he was half hard again with Rick between his thighs, but then Rick’s hand was in his hair, gentle against his skull, running through it again and again.

Daryl thought about Rick’s hair, but didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do with any of this, because he’d thought at first Rick was gonna fuck him—that Rick had got him out here to fuck him and he’d been squeezing his ass so he could fuck him and letting Daryl hump him to get ready to fuck him—but he was taking so long. It was taking so long; no one had ever taken this long before. No one had ever kissed him like this before.

As if kissing just to kiss.

Daryl held onto Rick’s hips, opened his mouth, and let Rick do whatever he wanted.

“Kiss me,” said Rick, pulling away.

Daryl obeyed, following Rick’s lips with his own, putting them over Rick’s like Rick had done to him, but his tongue felt sluggish in his mouth, heavy and awkward when he licked Rick’s lips, too wet. Like a dog would kiss, like a teenager would kiss, like somebody who didn’t know how to kiss would kiss. This was stupid. He just wanted to mash his mouth against Rick’s until Rick started doing those things he’d been doing, because Rick could do it so good—

So Daryl pulled away and did those other things Rick had been doing—kissed Rick’s neck and his stubbled jawline and his cheeks, except whenever Daryl tried to do all the nipping and sucking Rick had done to him it felt wrong, like he didn’t know the right places. For instance, you didn’t scrape your teeth on someone’s cheek; that was a neck thing. You did that on someone’s neck, only Daryl didn’t remember until he tried it on Rick’s cheek and felt silly for doing it.

So he just pressed his lips there, and then did it again, and again, on Rick’s jaw and his neck and the side of his nose and his temple and that spot Rick had found on Daryl, behind his ear. Just pressed his lips, over and over, everywhere, all over Rick’s face because Daryl didn’t know what to do but he knew he wanted him; he wanted him so bad and he liked him; he liked every part of him, every single part.

“Daryl,” Rick breathed out, touching his face. Then his lips were on Daryl’s again, kissing him deep and slow.

Something electronic made a ding sound.

“Sorry,” Rick said when he pulled away. “It—it’s Carl.” He got out his phone, face lit up by his screen in the shadowy night.

He looked like Rick.

Rick was behind a bar at night kissing him. Not just kissing him—making out with him. Like a teenager. Like some teenager other than the one Daryl had been, because the sum total of Daryl’s high school kissing experience had been making out with a girl, which he hadn’t wanted and had hated, and making out with two different boys, both of whom had told him there were better uses for his lips.

“I gotta,” Rick began. “I gotta pick him up.” 

He put his phone away, sounding so upset about it Daryl asked, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s fine,” Rick said. “I got him for the weekend. I didn’t know he was—I gotta pick him up.”

Rick had already said that part. Daryl waited.

“You and I need to talk,” said Rick.

“No, we don’t,” Daryl said quickly.

“I wanna . . .” But Rick didn’t finish. Instead he was kissing him again, and Daryl was relieved. He was so, so relieved; he was bending his head back for it before Rick even got his tongue in his mouth. “Dammit,” said Rick, when he pulled away.

“You should go.” Daryl stepped back, trying to press himself farther back against the wall.

“I wanna see you,” Rick said. “You got that, right? I still wanna . . . What’re you doing Monday?”

“What?”

“I got Carl for the weekend,” Rick said. “I gotta spend time with him. Are you free Monday?”

“I got work.”

“After that.”

Daryl shrugged.

“Where can I meet you?”

Daryl knew what that meant. Other things, he wasn’t so sure about, but this, he was sure. _Where can we fuck,_ was what it meant. _Where can we go so I can fuck you Monday after work_. Daryl licked his lips. “You,” he said roughly. “You wanna come over?”

“Fuck,” said Rick. “Yes.” Rick kissed him again. “Can I?”

“What?” Daryl was distracted. Rick’s teeth were scraping against his neck again.

“Monday,” Rick said against his throat. “Can I come over Monday.”

_Can I come to your trailer and fuck your brains out Monday._

Daryl tried to shrug like he didn’t care, but couldn’t make himself do it. “Yeah,” he said instead, somewhat breathlessly. “You can—you can come over.”

“Goddamn,” Rick muttered.

Rick’s phone dinged again. 

“Carl,” Daryl said, pulling away.

“I know.” Rick took out his phone, pressed something on it, put it back into his pocket. Kissed him again.   
“Monday,” he said, pulling back.

He waited until Daryl nodded, then turned and jogged away.


	9. Chapter 9

Monday took forever to come.

After leaving the bar, Daryl lit out on the bike, getting as far away as possible. Feeling Rick’s hand on his dick, Rick’s cock in his mouth, Rick’s lips on his throat, he rode like he was trying to get away from them. He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t think.

He needed to hit something, get in a fight. Drink something and keep on drinking. Kill something and tear it apart, make it end. Just make it end completely, no longer part of the world, because he couldn’t _think_. He couldn’t hold it in his brain, those things Rick had said. 

The way Rick had touched him. 

_You’re perfect._

Daryl slept in the woods. Hunted the next day. He didn’t have his stuff—crossbow or Merle’s gun or nothing. Just a pocket knife, but it could be enough to hunt with if he was smart about it. At the edge of a pond he found two mallards napping, nestled up against a rock by the shore, noses tucked in their wings. 

“Go.” Daryl stomped his foot right next to the mallards. “Go on,” he yelled, when they woke. “Get! What’re you even doing, sleeping in the middle of the day?” It was probably about seven in the morning. The male one was flapping his wings, quacking angrily, the female waddling down to the pond. “Get!” Daryl told the male one again. “You’ll get yourself killed. Anything could come at you!” Bending down, Daryl picked up at rock, threw it at the bird, who followed its mate into the water, jumping in with an awkward little hop and spread wings.

Some people said mallards mated for life.

They were really fucking stupid. Daryl was pissed off at them for being so stupid. Ducks were so _stupid_. Fucking _ducks_. Daryl threw another rock. It broke the surface of the pond with barely a splash, then smoothly sank in, almost no ripples.

Goddamn, Daryl hated ducks. Should’ve killed them. Could’ve had himself a stew.

Stomping back to where he’d left the bike, he uncovered it from the brush. Walked it out to the edge of the woods, got on, letting his mind go blank on the road. Countryside whipped past, grass and trees, woods and farms. A peach orchard, how Georgia. _Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?_ Rick had said. 

Daryl’s brain immediately leapt away from the memory. He gunned the throttle faster.

Spent the day on the road, eating at gas stations, feeling asphalt under him. Needing it to distract him from—everything. Finally crashed at home late at night, and in the morning, couldn’t think of what to do. 

Rick had said he was gonna fuck him.

Daryl’s mind shied away from it again. He couldn’t think of why Rick would want it, couldn’t bear the thought of Rick not wanting it; he couldn’t think about it at all.

“Daryl?” Carol said, when Daryl called her.

Daryl couldn’t remember why he was calling.

“Are you okay?” When Daryl didn’t answer, she went on, “Did something happen? Want me to come over?”

What made her think something was wrong? Was she expecting to hear from him? What day was it anyway? Daryl tried to think. Rick was on Friday. Rick in the bar. Christ, Rick.

_Rick._

“Daryl,” said Carol.

“Huh?”

“Where have you been?”

_Sucking off Rick Grimes in a bar_. But that had been on Friday. It was Sunday now. Shit. 

He was supposed to go horseback riding with Sophia and Beth yesterday.

“Talk to me,” said Carol.

“I got busy,” Daryl said, because he didn’t know how to explain he’d lost his mind.

“What happened?”

Carol was always doing that, questioning him, like a mom, like a sister. She wasn’t related to him. She wasn’t his _family_.

“Daryl,” she said.

“I ain’t accountable to you.” Daryl hadn’t meant to snap, but it came out that way. “I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

A pause. “I didn’t say you had.” 

He had though. He’d missed something with Sophia. Fuck.

That was just the kinda thing that Ed did.

“It’s not like you to miss something like that.”

Daryl tore at the cuticle of his thumb with his teeth. He wanted it to hurt. Wanted to make it bleed. Wanted a smoke. Jesus, he wanted Carol. He wanted to tell her everything, have her make sense of it for him. 

“Did you have someone over?”

Daryl took his thumb out of his mouth.

“Say something,” Carol said again.

“Nah.”

“No, you won’t say something, or no, you didn’t have anyone—”

“I didn’t.” Daryl shifted from foot to foot, guilt still sluicing through him. “I don’t do shit like that anymore. I just—sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I just want to know what’s going on.”

“I just—I . . . forgot.”

A long pause.

“It ain’t gonna happen again,” Daryl said in a rush. He was pretty certain he wasn’t gonna get to suck off Rick in a bar again, at any rate.

Jesus.

Rick.

“I got distracted,” Daryl added. “But you ain’t gotta worry. It weren’t nothing bad, and—and can you tell Sophia I’ll make it up to her?”

“Okay.” Another pause. “It’s okay to have your own life, you know. Just maybe call next time.”

“Yeah. Am I . . . Do you still wanna go out? On Valentine’s Day.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Carol asked. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah,” Daryl said quickly. “It ain’t nothing, Carol. I just forgot.”

“Okay,” said Carol. “See you on Tuesday at seven.”

They said goodbye, and Daryl pressed the button on the phone, dropping it beside him on the couch. As though thoughts of Carol had been connected directly to the phone, they all slid away. And then he was sitting on the couch, not thinking of anything.

And then there was Rick.

Daryl’s hand went immediately to his jeans; he couldn’t stop himself, stroking himself off to an assault of memories.

Rick pushing him against the door. _I’m gonna make you come._ Rick’s palm around his cock, Rick stroking him—Rick’s strong, capable hand. Rick’s lips slanting over his, Rick’s tongue in Daryl’s mouth, on Daryl’s cheek, licking off come, Rick kissing him. Kissing him and kissing him like he couldn’t stop.

“You’re doing exactly what I want,” said Rick’s voice in his ear.

Fuck. How could Rick want it? Why the hell would Rick—

He’d broke up with Jessie. He probably wasn’t getting nookie anywhere else.

Thinking that kinda thing about Rick was wrong. About _Rick_ , who helped battered women and forgave his wife for cheating with his best friend and loved his son more than Earth. Daryl couldn’t think about where Rick was getting _nookie_ ; those thoughts didn’t even fit together. 

Thinking about it was getting Daryl so hot he could barely breathe; his hand was moving harder on his cock.

Nothing fit together, because the fact of it was, Daryl had sucked Rick off on a bathroom floor and Rick had kissed him for it. Licked come off his face and kissed him again. Kept on kissing him, then stroked off Daryl’s cock. Rick had stroked Daryl off in the men’s room and hadn’t even fucked him after. Rick had made Daryl come and hadn’t even gotten any pussy out of it. The man deserved to get pussy somewhere, at least. Why _not_ get it from—

Daryl’s thoughts darted away again, like touching hot coals. He couldn’t think about it. 

He came all over his fist not thinking about it, not thinking of anything, not even dreaming of the pussy he was gonna be for Rick, because that was nonsensical. It just wasn’t possible.

Rick had said he was gonna come fuck him Monday night.

Daryl had to get the mail. Put the trash out. Scrub the toilets. Wash the sheets, towels. Put away the laundry. Sweep the floor. Make sure the place was clean, because Rick was gonna come fuck him.

It was too big, what Rick had done. Bigger than Daryl’s ability to accept or comprehend. Like when you wake up and realize you were supposed to like girls, but you don’t, not at all. The world feels different inside you but no one looks at you any different; it’s unseen, like a sickness. You forget it and hope if you give it no attention, it will fade away, and you’ll get better.

Instead it unfolds, inevitably, inescapably. It becomes reality, like your heart pumping inside of you, your lungs, your blood, your viscera. Never looking at it, you can pretend it doesn’t exist, but it’s so much a part of you that without it, you wouldn’t be you.

What had happened with Rick had similarly invaded Daryl’s brain. Maybe it could work the same way: if he didn’t think of it too often, it would become true, a fact that—just like his being gay—would grow silently, untended, until it became a massive, incontrovertible reality that shaped his life completely.

Daryl thoughts skipped over it, like a stone across a pond. Ripples formed on the surface, but somehow, the stone never sank in.

*

Rick came over Monday night.

Called that morning, just to arrange the time. “Today’s gonna be too long,” Rick had said.

_Too long to wait to fuck you_.

Daryl agreed. Goddamn. He was gonna die of thirst.

Now seven o’clock was here, and Rick was knocking on the door. Daryl opened it.

“Hi,” said Rick.

He still had the beard—short and organized instead of rough and wild, his hair combed with a hint of curl in the back instead of the tumble it used to be. He had on a coat that made him look just like _Brokeback_ , which was a movie Daryl had never seen because he was sure it was gay and stupid—but he couldn’t stop staring at the posters when it’d come out or whenever he happened across the picture in a store.

“Can I come in?”

Realizing he’d just been standing there staring, Daryl stepped back, opening the door wider. Rick came in and Daryl closed the door. Turned to face Rick and felt himself reach out; he didn’t know why, like he was gonna grab him or something when he should be offering to take Rick’s coat or give him a glass of goddamn water.

Rick pushed him against the door and kissed him.

Daryl opened his mouth immediately and Rick made a sound, this low hungry sound, and then he was stroking Daryl’s tongue with his, coaxing it, pressing closer, until he was sucking Daryl’s tongue. It felt filthy, almost vulgar, intrusive in a way no one had ever been in Daryl’s mouth before and Daryl loved it, heard himself whine deep in his throat for it, tried to open his mouth even wider for it. Breathing harshly, Rick pulled back, and then licked Daryl’s teeth, his gums, his lips, just like he wanted all of it and didn’t care about being polite or sparing with his tongue. 

Rick’s hands were both on Daryl’s face, holding his head there as though afraid Daryl might move it to deny him access, but after several moments Rick pulled back to struggle out of his coat. Dropped it onto the floor, and then he was coming back in again to kiss, one of his hands finding Daryl’s hip bone, just above his jeans, just under Daryl’s shirt. Rick put his palm there and for a moment just pressed, as though reveling in all that bare skin, and then he was stroking, petting circles, gentle in a way his tongue wasn’t.

After another minute, Rick ripped himself away as though forcing himself, the breaths he took almost gasps. He pressed his forehead against Daryl’s, hard, still breathing Daryl’s air. “We were gonna talk,” he said hoarsely.

“Nah.” Daryl brushed his lips over Rick’s and then Rick was kissing him again, just as Daryl meant him to. Whatever talking they did would probably lead to Rick talking himself out of this, when right now Rick wanted it. He wanted it and he’d wanted it back at the bar; it seemed impossible but Rick had probably also wanted it that night in the park and Daryl had messed it up. He’d messed it up so bad, and he wanted Rick to think as little as possible about any of it because if Rick did think he’d reconsider; he’d realize how fucked up this was and reconsider.

Daryl’s hands went for Rick’s belt buckle, fumbled as he tried to get it undone with Rick kissing him.

“Wait,” Rick breathed, once Daryl’d finally got the prong out of the hole.

Daryl didn’t stop because he was a good person. He stopped because he’d rushed it in the bar and he didn’t think he could get away with it twice. His hands were aching to hold Rick’s dick but not as much as his ass was aching; he needed to pace this just right so Rick couldn’t think too hard about it but also didn’t feel played. Taking his hands off the belt, Daryl brushed his lips against the corner of Rick’s mouth, and then Rick was kissing him again.

Rick’s mouth slid down along Daryl’s jaw, mouthing at the hair there, then slipping lower to Daryl’s neck. It was good, so good and it was Rick, Rick kissing and sucking at Daryl’s neck like he wanted it, couldn’t get enough of it, pressing his nose against it and breathing it in like he needed it, but Daryl wanted to get fucked so bad. He wanted it so bad and Rick was just—just _dilly dallying_ around Daryl’s neck with his mouth, when he could be shoving his cock into Daryl’s ass. Daryl didn’t know what to do to get him going, to get Rick going at it. Rick seemed concerned with such little things.

Daryl reached for Rick’s belt again.

“I said wait,” Rick breathed into his neck.

Daryl stopped instantly.

“Shit,” said Rick, and then he was pulling roughly at Daryl’s buckle, getting it undone and yanking the leather out of the buckle frame, tugging at the button on Daryl’s jeans. Yanking down Daryl’s jeans and underwear, Rick reached down in there and wrapped a strong firm hand around it, oh God, oh _God_. Daryl felt helpless. He writhed, bucking against the door; he was gonna come just from _I said wait_.

Rick was gonna fuck him against the door.

Daryl made a sound at the thought of it, a needy animal sound he couldn’t control, his hands plastered on either side of his own hips against the door.

Rick brought his palm up and licked it, then as his mouth once again claimed Daryl’s, his hand went back to Daryl’s cock, palm stroking down the length of it, fingers wrapping around the base and then pulling back up, tugging gently. His thumb moved over the tip, spreading wetness; Daryl had to look away because God, it was so . . . something about it was so obscene, Rick’s hand on his cock, but he still wasn’t gonna come from it. He wasn’t gonna come because it was so gentle and—and Daryl hadn’t even done anything. He didn’t deserve Rick’s hand on his dick. He didn’t even want it yet because it was too good, too rich, too much. He just wanted to get fucked. 

He just wanted Rick to pound him hard and unload in his ass and then when Daryl was a used-up mess fucked-out against the door, maybe then if Rick wanted Rick could touch him and Daryl would come at just the idea of it. He’d come at just the idea of Rick touching him and saying nice things while Daryl leaned against the door with come leaking out his ass.

Daryl’s hips jerked at the thought of it, a shallow buck against the door.

“Good,” Rick whispered, and Daryl had forgotten Rick knew about that. 

It should embarrass him but Daryl was already too strung out to care, his body reacting instinctively to the praise.

“Yeah,” Rick said, as if agreeing with the pathetic shudder Daryl’s hips had made in response to the word. Rick’s free hand went down to his own pants, sliding leather out of the buckle Daryl had undone, unbuttoning his jeans one-handed. Rick’s movements were smooth, unhurried. He’d definitely opened his pants like this before and goddamn, Rick was experienced, _skilled_ ; Daryl was shaking, slightly, from wanting it. He wanted to give Rick his ass as soon as possible, but when Daryl tried to move to turn around, Rick’s body was there, hand on Daryl’s cock.

Then Rick got his cock out and touched it to Daryl’s, and Daryl’s breath caught. He’d never . . . oh God, it was so wrong, Rick spitting in his hand, wrapping it around both their dicks. At least when someone jacked him or sucked him those were things you did with girls; getting fucked was different, but for the guy doing the fucking it could still be kinda like fucking a girl. But this—there was just no pretending for anyone with this, Rick fisting both their cocks, Rick’s cock _leaking_ onto Daryl’s and why was he doing it? Why was he touching him this way?

“You feel so good,” Rick said in his ear, and Daryl convulsed. 

Rick bit his earlobe, as though to keep him still, then started moving his fist faster. It wasn’t big enough to fit around them, but then he got his other hand down there, working them both, together, their dicks lined up against one another and Daryl couldn’t look at it. It was nasty. It was the filthiest thing he’d ever seen and he thought he might come from just looking at how disgusting it was, Rick’s cock sliding against his.

“Touch me,” Rick said. “I wanna feel you.”

Daryl didn’t know what Rick meant, whether he meant their cocks, his hair or face or what, but that night at the bar he hadn’t gotten to touch Rick’s balls. He’d only gotten to feel them against his chin and he wanted—he needed to touch them, to hold that part of Rick, to know he’d got his hands on them. 

Daryl reached between the bracket of Rick’s arms, and Rick moved one of his hands off of them. Daryl’s hand moved down, under Rick’s dick, and then Daryl was holding Rick’s testicles. Rick’s cock jerked against his, Rick’s hips thrusting into Daryl’s cock and his own hands.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Like that.”

Oh God.

“Daryl,” Rick breathed.

_What?_ Daryl wanted to demand, when Rick didn’t say anymore. _What what what, tell me what to do, give me something else to do_ because the thought that he was giving Rick pleasure was driving him out of his mind. He squeezed and pulled at Rick’s balls, didn’t know what else to do because honestly, he didn’t give handjobs that often, not when he could use his ass or his mouth. He didn’t know what else to do.

Tentatively, he moved his hand from Rick’s balls to touch Rick’s hand, still fisting their cocks.

“Yeah, do it,” Rick muttered. Grabbing Daryl’s wrist with his free hand, he wrapped Daryl’s hand around their cocks. Somehow the feel of Rick’s fingers guiding his was more intense than touching both their dicks, so close and intimate somehow, too much.

“Good,” said Rick. “Keep doing it. Christ, I’m gonna come.”

Daryl’s hips bucked against the door and he could feel it everywhere—his dick thrusting against his hand, against Rick, Rick’s hands sliding over his as their cocks slid together, fuck. If Rick came he was gonna get his hands all dirty. Daryl started panting.

“Yeah,” said Rick. He came, thrusting against Daryl’s dick, both their hands, come spattering in a mess on their hands, some of it on Daryl’s shirt; maybe some of it on the floor, but most of it on their hands. It was filthy, a disgusting mess, and when Rick started to slow down Daryl didn’t know what to do, his hand loosening on them, knowing how sensitive Rick’s cock had to be and wanting to get away, get something for Rick to wash his hands with.

Rick held him by the dick. “Stay,” he croaked, then wiped his come on Daryl’s cock. Picked up Daryl’s hand and swiped the come on it over Daryl’s cock too. Wiped come from Daryl’s shirt and put that on Daryl as well, then wrapped his hand around it and started rubbing it in. He had Daryl’s cock covered in his own come and was jacking it off. It was so repulsive that Daryl couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“I’m gonna make you come,” Rick said.

Daryl jerked in his hand.

Rick moved closer in, hand still stroking Daryl’s cock, other hand going down to Daryl’s balls. That hand probably had his come on it too and Daryl shuddered, unable to control himself. “Come on,” Rick said in his ear, “that was so good. You made me come so hard.”

“Oh,” Daryl said. He was gonna lose his mind.

“Come on.” Rick worked him harder, his hands rougher now. “You’re so good for me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Daryl said again. He’d already lost it.

“I thought about you all weekend,” Rick said, and Daryl came.

He couldn’t stop it, head thunking against the door, cock jerking in Rick’s hands, come getting him dirty and Rick just said, “Give it to me,” which made Daryl convulse.

“Good,” Rick said when he was done, then kissed him. His lips were warm and soft, leisurely—decadent, almost, sinking in against Daryl’s in that way that made Daryl want to tip his head back and drown. “Good,” Rick murmured again, pulling away. “Don’t move,” he added, turning away.

He went toward the kitchen, and Daryl just stood there, his pants hanging open, his dick nasty with Rick’s come and his own. His hands were sticky, his shirt stained. He was a fucking mess, dirty and used-up. He wanted to slide down the door and sit on the ground, useless and good for nothing, at least for a while.

But Rick had told him don’t move.

When Rick came back he had a damp cloth. Daryl’s brain was too fried to comprehend it, but when Rick took Daryl’s hand and wiped it off, Daryl finally understood. Rick reached for Daryl’s dick and Daryl knocked his hand away. “Don’t.”

“No?” Rick frowned.

“I gotta,” Daryl began, but couldn’t explain how humiliating it was, the idea of Rick cleaning him, that Rick should have to clean him because he’d soiled himself.

Rick handed him the cloth. “Do you want—”

“Nah. I’ll . . .” Tucking himself away, Daryl hastily did up his pants, then headed for the bathroom. He should have known Rick would want to clean him. Rick probably didn’t like dirty things.

In the bathroom, Daryl took his shirt off, washed his hands, stomach, cock, balls. His underwear was probably dirty too. His jeans were probably filthy. All of him was disgusting; he should take a shower; he should wash his hair; he should burn his fucking clothes; he should—

Fuck, he needed a fucking cigarette.

Rick was out there waiting for him. Daryl had just left him standing there, holding his dumb towel.

Daryl scrubbed himself again, fast and hard, making it hurt so he knew he would be clean. The bathroom was connected to his bedroom, so it was easy to get new clothes, reapply deodorant, make sure he smelled okay.

When Daryl came back out, Rick’s jacket was laid neatly over the couch. He was looking at Daryl’s video games.

“Sorry,” Daryl told him.

Rick’s brow knit. “You hungry?”

“Nah.”

“You had dinner?”

Daryl shook his head.

“Uh-huh.” Rick’s eyes swept over him, like he was taking in everything—new shirt, new jeans buttoned and buckled, hands clean. “I wanna take you out.”

Daryl tried to think that through and came up against a wall. “Out?” he said stupidly.

“To eat.”

“You wanna,” Daryl began. Licked his lips, tried again. “We could order delivery.”

Rick just stared at him.

“Why?” Daryl asked finally.

“I didn’t come here for sex,” Rick said.

Daryl frowned. Rick had said he was coming to fuck him—hadn’t he? Hadn’t that been what he’d said? But no, when he’d got here he’d said they were gonna talk. Daryl didn’t see what there was to talk about. Christ, why did it have to be complicated? 

“Okay,” was all Daryl said.

“I’ll drive,” said Rick.

*

The interior of Rick’s old Honda Civic was as depressing as the exterior.

_We need to talk,_ Rick had said, but he wasn’t saying anything.

Daryl fidgeted, tapping his thigh, knee going up and down. Rick reached over and touched his knee.

Startled, Daryl looked over at him, but Rick was looking at the road just like the Boy Scout he was. Even though Daryl had stopped bouncing his knee, the hand stayed there. Daryl looked down at it—Rick’s capable hand, holding down Daryl’s knee with a warm firm grip. 

Rick was touching him just to touch him. Daryl stopped thinking altogether.

“Have you seen Carol recently?” Rick asked, taking his hand away.

Daryl glanced at him quickly, but couldn’t read anything in his gaze. Rick was still looking at the road. Daryl chewed on his cuticle. “Last week.”

“How was she?”

“Good.” Daryl took his finger out of his mouth.

“How’s Sophia?”

“Good.” Daryl guessed he should say more than just _good_ , but couldn’t think what. Rick didn’t need to know he’d bummed out on Sophia this past weekend; Daryl wanted Rick to preserve the illusion that he could keep track of making more than one person happy at a time. Tapping his thigh again, Daryl said, “She’s doing algebra.”

“Yeah?” Rick glanced over.

“Yeah. Helped her out on homework. Carol was doing job stuff—applications. Résumé stuff. I don’t know anything about that.” 

“But you know something about algebra?” Rick sounded surprised.

_I’m not illiterate,_ Daryl wanted to snap, but Rick didn’t mean it that way.

“Whenever I think of you out there I just imagine you’re teaching her hunting.”

When Daryl glanced at him, Rick didn’t look like he was teasing. Daryl shrugged. “They were too busy with important stuff,” he said, going back to chewing his cuticle.

Rick didn’t say anything for a while. 

“How was Carl?” Daryl asked.

Rick’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Good.” 

Daryl took his finger out of his mouth. Looked from Rick’s hands to his face, back to his hands.

Rick sighed, fists loosening on the wheel. “No. I don’t know. He . . . he’s difficult.”

Daryl waited.

“He was mad I was going with Jessie,” Rick said finally. “Now he’s mad I broke up with her.”

Daryl’s leg started bouncing again. 

“I think he’s worried about Sam.”

Making himself stop his leg, Daryl looked back over at him. “Sam?”

Rick didn’t say anything for a while. “Jessie’s ex-husband used to hit her. Jessie, she was doing good, getting past it. Ron was just angry, but Sam . . . that sorta thing has a lasting effect.”

_That sorta thing_.

“When Carl found out, he wanted to help,” said Rick.

“Like his dad.”

Rick glanced at him quickly. “That wasn’t why I was with Jessie.”

The Honda turned. Daryl didn’t know where they were going.

“I could tell she’d been through something, but that didn’t matter,” Rick said. “She was strong. Responsible. Good with kids.” Daryl could feel Rick glance at him again. “That’s what I like.”

Daryl looked down at his hands.

“Good-looking doesn’t hurt,” Rick added.

Daryl’s hands curled into fists. “What about Sam?” he asked, after time seemed to stretch out.

“He’ll be all right.” Rick glanced at him. “Some people are.”

_Some people aren’t_ , Daryl wanted to say, but he didn’t.

Rick put his hand on his knee again. Daryl stopped bouncing his leg.

*

The restaurant wasn’t fancy.

The floor was cement, the wood and canvas chairs looked like they could fold up, and pipes were visible in the ceiling. You ordered up at the front and then they gave you a flag and brought the food to you. Rick and Daryl got water and sat down in the corner with their little green flag, and Rick didn’t do nothing like try to pay, or put his hand on Daryl’s knee again. 

They waited a while. Across from them a family sat eating dinner—a mom and a dad and two little kids.

“Sophia said she don’t miss her dad,” Daryl found himself saying, as though their conversation in the car hadn’t ended.

“She told you that?”

Daryl nodded.

“What did you say?”

“Said she don’t have to.” Daryl looked down at his water. “But she does. Miss him.” 

“How do you know?”

Daryl shrugged.

“Yeah,” said Rick.

The kids at the table across from them had crayons, coloring on paper menus. Daryl wondered whether their parents brought the crayons. Maybe they gave them to you at the register if you had kids. 

“Sophia ain’t gonna be normal,” Daryl said finally.

“No one’s normal,” said Rick.

Daryl flicked his gaze up, letting disdain show through.

“They’re not,” said Rick. “Some people just pretend better than others.”

Daryl’s stomach turned over, and he was gonna say something bad. He was gonna say something real bad, _yeah you pretended real good_ , and then he didn’t. 

“You’re good with her,” said Rick.

Daryl’s stomach turned again.

“You’re a better father to her than Ed Peletier ever could be,” Rick said.

Rick knew how Daryl took it, now; he knew what it meant. But Rick wasn’t looking at him like he was trying to get to him; he was looking at him like he believed every word he was saying. Jesus Christ. Rick.

“You think she won’t get along with other kids?” Rick asked, after another moment.

Daryl concentrated on the thought of Sophia. Her sharp little face, the curve of her short hair. Sitting alone with her hunting book in the corner. In the woods with her _I don’t like Beth Greene_. Daryl shrugged.

“Is she having trouble in school?”

“No.” Daryl looked up, offended on Sophia’s behalf.

Rick just looked at him.

Daryl bit his lip, trying to think how to explain. “She can be mad as long as she wants,” he said finally.

“But you don’t want her to be mad forever.”

Biting his lips some more, Daryl looked back down at the table. “I was mad at Merle most of forever.”

Rick sipped his water. Put it back on the table. Like they were just sitting here having a normal conversation.

“He left,” said Daryl, because even if Merle had been bad, he didn’t want Rick thinking Merle was bad like Pop.

Another long moment passed. The little boy at the table across from them was grabbing the little girl’s crayons.

“You’re not mad anymore?” Rick said.

“It just—stopped.” Daryl thought about visiting Merle after seeing Jake that last time, when he hadn’t felt anything—none of that rage or resentment. Some frustration. Mostly pity. And sadness. “It stopped after you—” Daryl cut himself off, because he didn’t know how to say, _after I called you a faggot in the park_. “After Carol, and Sophia, and—” shit, this was so hard—“you.”

“It makes you stronger. Having been through that.” Rick’s voice was low but firm, full of that honey drawl that made Daryl want to listen forever. “Carol and Sophia are stronger.”

“Nah,” said Daryl. 

Rick’s brows went up.

“Some get through it and some don’t,” Daryl said. “Carol and Sophia—they’re lucky. Carol shooting Ed—that was luck, that she had a gun, that she got it in time.”

Daryl was looking at the kids at the table. Dad must’ve told them to stop messing with the crayons or something, because they were dutifully eating now. Daryl glanced at Rick, who had his head tilted, looking at him as though he still didn’t quite understand.

Daryl shrugged. “That ‘sorta thing’—it’s like a fire. Being strong don’t make you survive a fire. Everyone burns—strong, weak. Smart, dumb. Big, small. Getting burnt don’t make you strong, neither. It just makes you hurt. Them being strong—that’s something they did themselves. It didn’t take no fire at all; it took Carol, being who she is.” 

Under the table across from them, the boy was passing the girl crayons just as though he’d never stolen them from her in the first place.

“Let’s get the food to go.”

Ripping his gaze away from the other table, Daryl looked at Rick, who didn’t explain. “You’re the one that wanted to go out.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Rick licked his lips. “But there’s something else I’d rather be doing right now.”

_Man, what?_ Daryl almost asked, but the way Rick was looking at him—hungry, almost, like his dinner was already right here, Christ. He must’ve realized fucking was a much better option than conversation. “Yeah,” Daryl heard himself say, his words a rush. “We can—we can get it to go.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that it might take a day or two longer for the next chapter. Thank you to everyone who is reading this for all your kind comments. I love reading your thoughts and I am so glad you are enjoying this story!

Rick didn’t say anything in the Honda. Not a single thing, just staring straight at the road, going exactly the speed limit, putting on his turn signal like a good little scout and Christ, Daryl wanted him so bad.

He wanted him so bad and Rick was gonna fuck him; he’d practically said it in the restaurant. Daryl could not stop fidgeting, darting looks at Rick: the curl of his hair, his lean hands on the steering wheel, smooth and fucking in control, the slight bunch of his thigh as his foot moved on the gas pedal, his straight nose, his soft lips, goddamn. Goddamn. 

Daryl wanted Rick to fuck him so hard he couldn’t see straight, fuck him so hard he couldn’t breathe, shove him down and fuck him even harder, Rick with his shirt off pushing him around, yanking his hair, saying the kinds of things Rick said. _There’s something else I’d rather be doing right now_. Fuck. Daryl squirmed in his seat.

Then they were at the trailer, Rick getting out and locking the car once Daryl was out of it, striding up to the door and standing aside so Daryl could unlock it, Rick’s breath hot on his neck while Daryl fumbled with the keys. Daryl got the door open and Rick gave Daryl a push, forcing him inside, entering after him, pulling the door closed behind him, dropping the bag with the food. Then Rick kissed him. Daryl dropped the keys.

Daryl’d already forgotten this part, the way that Rick loved to kiss; Rick loved it so much it was like he wanted to do it all the time. With this kiss, he pushed Daryl back, deeper in the living-room and Daryl went easily, stepping back and back and back as Rick pushed forward, still kissing.

Daryl’d thought they were going to the bedroom but they ended up on the couch, which was okay, Daryl guessed, especially because Rick pushed him down onto it. Daryl landed awkwardly, but Rick just took off his coat and climbed on top of him, mouth dragging along Daryl’s jaw. Rick’s hand slowly twined in Daryl’s hair, gently at first, knees planted on either side of Daryl’s thighs. Then the grip tightened—yanking just as Daryl had imagined—stinging his scalp and pulling him so that Daryl’s head tipped back and his hips slid down, giving Rick’s mouth better access to his, bringing Rick’s crotch closer to his. Daryl tipped his head back even farther, just because.

As Rick’s mouth kissed a trail down the side of Daryl’s throat, the rest of Rick pulled away a bit, Rick’s hands reaching for the hem of Daryl’s shirt.

Daryl pushed Rick’s hands away.

Rick paused. “No?”

Daryl pushed Rick’s hands away again, bringing his mouth up to Rick’s so Rick would forget about it.

Rick did, kissing him again, pulling more gently on Daryl’s hair. Daryl kept his hands on Rick’s waist, trying not to grip too tight. Eventually Rick’s hands went down again, past Daryl’s shirt this time, opening Daryl’s belt, his jeans. When Rick reached inside, his hand felt good, and Daryl wished Rick would just fuck him already. Then Rick was sliding to the floor, on his knees—spreading Daryl’s thighs, tugging down Daryl’s jeans. Daryl looked down at him stupidly as Rick reached into his back pocket, pulled a condom out.

Of course Rick would use condoms. Of course he would bring them with him— _always be prepared—_ and Daryl was trying to deal with the disappointment curdling his stomach, because of course he wasn’t safe. He could have a million diseases. Two million, who knew what Jake had given him; who knew what he could’ve gotten before that; he’d _never_ used a condom, not even once, and that was bad, real bad. All the ads and things said that was bad, and yet the only thing Daryl could feel was disappointment he wouldn’t get to feel Rick inside him, skin to skin; Rick wouldn’t come inside him; he wouldn’t get to have Rick’s come inside of him, filling him up, leaking out of him, filthy and disgusting and—

And then Rick was rolling the condom onto Daryl and Daryl was watching in confusion, feeling like an idiot, because Rick wasn’t gonna fuck him. Of course Rick wasn’t gonna fuck him. What had Daryl been thinking; how could Rick fuck him at this angle anyway, there, on his knees—on his knees—

Then Daryl figured it out and Rick’s mouth covered the head of his cock.

“Oh fuck,” Daryl cried out, lurching wildly.

Rick moved his head aside, put a hand on Daryl’s hip, the other at the base of Daryl’s condom-covered cock, then put his mouth on it again.

Daryl’s hands scrambled on the couch; he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do. Rick—Rick’s _mouth_ was on him, and look at him there with his mouth on a cock, his gorgeous mouth; Rick shouldn’t be doing this; he was gonna get his mouth all dirty—

But that was what the condom was for—

But Daryl didn’t . . . he hadn’t . . . Rick’s mouth was warm, and sucking, pulling off, his tongue swirling around the head, holy fuck it looked indecent; it looked wrong; it looked—it looked—thrilling, obscene, _nasty_ , was how it looked—Rick was just so gorgeous and he just kept licking it. Then his gaze flicked up at Daryl and Daryl looked down at him in horror, panic rising as Rick went down on him again.

“Don’t,” Daryl panted out.

Rick came up off of it. “Don’t?” he asked, looking up at Daryl, slightly incredulous.

Daryl’s mouth was dry. He swallowed hard.

Rick glanced down, Daryl’s erect cock, Daryl so hard he physically hurt. “Are you sure?” Rick asked, looking up at him again, licking already wet lips. 

“No,” said Daryl, but he didn’t know if he was answering Rick’s question or not.

Wrapping a hand around the base of Daryl’s cock, gripping tight, Rick moved back up over Daryl’s body. “That’s okay,” he said in Daryl’s ear. Hand still squeezing the base of Daryl’s cock, Rick kissed him—Daryl’s ear, the spot behind it, his jaw. “That’s okay, just tell me what you want.”

Daryl shuddered, unable to think, still seeing the way Rick had looked, down there with his mouth on Daryl’s cock. Daryl was gonna come just thinking about it.

“Daryl,” Rick whispered again in his ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“Man, don’t you wanna . . .” Daryl squirmed in Rick’s hand. “Don’t you wanna fuck me?”

Rick paused, hand slackening on Daryl’s dick, face hovering by Daryl’s. “Yeah,” Rick said, after a long moment. “Yeah, Daryl, I’d like to fuck you. Is that what you want?”

“Thought that’s what we were gonna do.”

“Is that what you want?”

Daryl could tell Rick was trying to look him in the eyes now. He didn’t know why; was this like a quiz; this was stupid. “I been waiting,” Daryl said.

“Okay.” Rick kissed him again, this time on the lips. “Okay,” he said again, kissing Daryl’s face, his jaw. “Yeah. I wanna fuck you.”

 _Then_ do _it already,_ Daryl wanted to yell, but he didn’t.

Pulling the condom off him, Rick stood up, went over to the kitchen. Must’ve thrown away the condom, came back, tugged on Daryl’s hand. “Where’s your bedroom?” he asked, kissing Daryl as he stood up from the couch.

That was just like Rick, wanting to do it in the bedroom, but that was okay. Rick was gonna fuck him, so Daryl took him there, flicking on the lights, toeing off his shoes, yanking off his socks. For a moment, Rick just watched him, then sat down on the bed, started taking off his own shoes. Daryl’s jeans were already undone, short work to push them down with his briefs, step out of them—

“Daryl,” said Rick, standing up, bare-footed. “Wait.”

“I can get it ready,” said Daryl, kicking away the jeans and underwear, reaching for the lube in his top drawer.

“It?” Something sounded awful about Rick’s voice.

“I can . . .” But Daryl didn’t know how to finish. He never talked about his ass, not like this; that was always Jake, but Rick didn’t know what he meant and he had to get it ready, so Daryl opened the lube and—

“Will you just slow down?” Rick’s hand wrapped around Daryl’s wrist.

Daryl looked up in surprise.

“Just—get on the bed,” Rick said, letting him go.

Daryl got on the bed, taking the lube with him.

For a moment, Rick just looked at him. Then, holding Daryl’s eyes, he took off his shirt.

Daryl was looking at him warily at first, not knowing what Rick wanted, but his gaze changed to hunger as he watched. He couldn’t help himself; he wanted this—he wanted it so much, getting to see all that skin, Rick’s naked skin—paler under his shirt: Rick’s shoulders and the hair on his chest and the sharp hip bones, angling into his jeans. The trail of hair under his navel down into his jeans made Daryl’s mouth water. It watered when Daryl had already seen what was in there; he’d _had_ what was in there; he’d sucked it and he was drooling for it anyway; it looked hard in Rick’s jeans.

When Rick came to the bed, all that bare skin was overwhelming. Rick kissed him again, his tongue sinking into Daryl’s mouth. Warm skin was everywhere, within reach, soft and stretched over hard muscles, tan and lightly freckled across Rick’s shoulders, oh God.

Rick’s shoulders. Rick’s arms. Daryl had felt them beneath Rick’s shirt but the idea of getting to touch them—getting to put his hands on Rick’s biceps, getting to touch Rick’s back—so much bare skin, the broad planes of it, getting to touch what no one else even got to see—for some reason Daryl was going out of his mind for it. He was already out of his mind for it, just the thought of getting his hands on Rick’s back. 

He wasn’t usually such a fucking queer. 

Like he was a cocksucker and liked it up the ass but just the idea that Rick was shirtless was driving him up the wall. His hands were fisted so hard in the sheets they ached.

“What’s wrong?” said Rick, pulling away.

Grabbing the open lube, Daryl fumbled getting some on his fingers, reaching down between his legs, getting a finger in.

“Daryl,” Rick said in his ear, real low. “Don’t you want me to—” Then Rick’s hand was on Daryl’s—between his legs, beneath his balls, and Daryl flinched.

“Don’t,” Daryl said, pushing Rick’s hand away.

“But—”

“You’ll get your fingers dirty.”

Rick took a swift breath. “Daryl—”

“I got it,” Daryl assured him, because he did have it. He pushed another finger in; that was open enough, and he’d gotten a bunch of slick in there too, make it easy for him, slide real nice—not so much Daryl wouldn’t be able to feel him, and Daryl’s brain was breaking at just the thought of it. Just the thought of Rick inside him. Inside his body—

But Rick was being real quiet now. Still against him. Not kissing him, and Daryl chanced a glance—Rick was watching him. Just watching his hand go to town on his asshole, and Daryl shouldn’t’ve reminded him how dirty it was. Rick was used to girls, wasn’t he? Used to pussy, probably didn’t do it in the ass to his wife, to that nice girl Jessie, because why would nice people like that take it in something they used to shit; Daryl shouldn’t have reminded him.

Maybe he should get it slicker, more like a pussy, make it feel like a pussy for Rick so he wouldn’t think about it when he was fucking him. He could fuck him just like he’d fuck a girl—

“Let me touch you,” said Rick, his hand going down there again.

“Don’t!” Daryl flinched away.

“Okay,” said Rick, and didn’t try it again. “Okay.” Then Rick kissed him. He kissed him and kissed him and kissed him—not that deep way; this was sweet, kisses all over Daryl’s face, his nose, his eyes, his beard, his forehead, more kisses, messy kisses, bites behind his ear, along his jaw. Rick pushed his tongue in Daryl’s mouth and pulled it out again. He licked Daryl’s ear. He bit Daryl’s bearded chin, then went back to kissing.

It was . . . strange, having Rick kissing him like that while Daryl’s fingers were inside himself. Usually Daryl hated fingering himself; he was just doing it so he could get fucked, but with Rick kissing him like that, he just—he just wanted to be touched and his fingers were already there, touching inside of himself and—

Daryl pulled his fingers out. “It’s ready,” he said. “You can go.” He rolled over, away from Rick’s kisses, so Rick could get to his ass.

Another swift inhale. 

A long pause.

Just as Daryl was beginning to get unsure, Rick touched him—on Daryl’s shoulder, a tentative touch. The hand flattened over his shoulder blade, smoothing down Daryl’s shirt, over his back. Then it went over Daryl’s ass—just this long, firm stroke, and Daryl tried not to shiver, because Rick was touching his ass. His bare ass, and then Rick started again—up at the shoulder, over his shirt, over his back, over his ass. Another long, firm stroke. And then another—petting. The way you calm an animal. 

Daryl’d seen Beth do it with a horse, once. You could do it with a dog. Daryl looked over his shoulder to see, and the look on Rick’s face was . . . he just looked so disappointed.

Daryl’s heart dropped. “Ain’t you gonna—” His voice caught. Daryl tried again. “Ain’t you gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah.” Rick’s voice was hoarse, and he sounded disappointed too. “I just . . .” But he didn’t finish, instead reached down and opened his jeans, started working on himself with his hand. 

Daryl swallowed hard. He’d thought Rick had been hard before. He must’ve lost it somehow, or gone at least a little soft, because now he was having to jack it. Maybe that was why he looked so bummed out about this; Daryl should’ve stroked it for him, made it easy, but then Rick must’ve gotten it there because next he was reaching into his pocket again for another condom.

By then Daryl’d already accepted the fact Rick wasn’t gonna come in him—Rick shouldn’t anyway; Rick might get diseases—so Daryl was okay with the condom; he just wanted Rick to get his cock in. Once Rick got the condom on Daryl figured they were good to go so he faced forward, on his knees, braced for it. 

Rick placed the heel of his hand in the small of Daryl’s back; the other hand had to be aiming his cock—and then Rick’s cock was at his entrance and he was pushing in—

Real slow.

Glacial slow. 

Daryl was braced for a freight train and here was Rick Grimes inch by fucking inch. The burn was good, the stretch was fine, but it wasn’t what Daryl wanted or needed. Not a single moment of this was as hot as it had been in Daryl’s head, and he couldn’t help feeling it was his fault somehow—something he hadn’t done right. Pushing back, Daryl tried to show Rick he could take it—Rick could really just take it; he could really pound it; use it; wreck it; rip it up; Daryl didn’t care. Hurt it.

Instead Rick kept going in, as though he had all night.

Jesus Christ. It was gonna take all night.

Then Rick was all the way in—had to be all the way in, deep as he was, a whisper of a touch on Daryl’s ass that had to be Rick’s balls, and it was—Daryl didn’t know what it was. Rick was just _staying_ there and Daryl was too full, hot and intense but not quite in a good way. He was just stretched so tight; it needed to come out. It needed to come out and in again, over and over again, pound him, _hurt_ him. Didn’t Rick know how to fuck? Daryl couldn’t stay another second like this, packed so tight that he was sweating, aching for something, anything—

Like a pig on a skewer. An overstuffed turkey. Full to bursting, just waiting there with his ass full of cock. His face was flaming with embarrassment, red and dripping with sweat; he was just so _ashamed_ at the way he wanted this, even just this, because it was Rick and it was Rick’s cock and he would do anything. He would take anything.

Then Rick started pulling out, thank God.

“I can’t do it this way,” Rick said, and came out the rest of the way.

No. Please—

“I need to see you,” said Rick, tugging his shoulder. “Get off your knees.” Rick turned him, then climbed on top of him, kissing him—kissing him and kissing him all over again. 

Daryl didn’t want Rick to look, to see his red, sweaty face, but now that he wasn’t on his knees the blood wasn’t rushing to his face. He was already cooling down, and Rick was—Rick was _licking_ up his sweat. Christ, it was so embarrassing. Daryl writhed, but Rick was holding him down now and licking his sweaty temple, his forehead—fuck, his _hair_.

Then Rick let up, grabbing a pillow and pushing it under Daryl’s back—up under him until the pillow was where Rick wanted. Then he was spreading Daryl’s thighs, moving in between them, and—God, this was even worse. 

“Like this,” Rick said, leaning over him, kissing him. 

Rick had got the pillow under Daryl’s lower back so it propped up Daryl’s hips. Daryl’s legs were splayed wide like a woman’s, his cock pointing up towards his stomach, nothing like a woman’s, his ass angled for easy access. It was ten times more sick and intimate and humiliating than being on his knees, and Daryl desperately wanted to close his legs, only Rick was there between them.

“Like this,” Rick said again. Then he was holding his own dick—the condom still on it; Daryl could see it now—positioning it at Daryl’s entrance, sliding in.

Daryl wasn’t used to being fucked from the front. He wasn’t used to having to _watch_ it. Jake certainly never did him like this; he couldn’t remember doing it like this—maybe once or twice? The way Rick was over him, Rick would be able to feel Daryl’s dick drag against him as he fucked. He’d be able to see Daryl’s _face_ and Daryl could feel himself sweating again, but Rick was kissing him. Over and over—Daryl’s mouth and face and neck.

Rick pushed all the way in, held, then came almost all the way out, still that agonizingly slow pace. The burn still felt good, thick and tight and full, but—it was barely like getting fucked at all. More like . . . like getting touched real deep, all the way down, and Daryl didn’t know what to think about that. 

“You’re so good,” Rick said, as he thrust in again. 

Oh shit.

Rick kissed him, pulling back out again, and who did that, kissed and fucked at the same time, then said those things. God, who did that, and Rick was looking at him, pressing in again—looking straight into Daryl’s eyes.

“Feel good, too,” Rick said, kissing again, thrusting again.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Rick’s hand slid down under Daryl’s thigh, everything feeling like movement under water, movement inside of honey, hot and thick and too goddamn slow. The hand lifted Daryl’s thigh, hiking it up, opening Daryl even wider so the angle of Rick’s cock could change and—

 _Oh_. Daryl heard himself make a sound.

A soft stupid sound, a sound he didn’t know he could make, this kind of whimper and no wonder Rick treated him like some kind of hurt animal, Jesus Christ; Rick’s hands were manipulating him, spreading him like butter. Soon he was gonna have Daryl’s legs in the air just like a whore and Daryl’d hate himself for it, and he’d do it anyway because—

“I like everything about this,” Rick murmured, kissing Daryl’s temple, his ear.

Jesus, Daryl would put his legs however Rick fucking wanted them; he’d spread just like a whore for it if Rick asked. He _was_ a whore for it, thick waves of embarrassment crashing into him every time Rick squeezed his thigh, hiking it higher, over and over again, too tight every time Rick pushed inside of him, a white-hot streak of pleasure every word that Rick said to him.

“Say you understand,” said Rick.

Daryl didn’t understand this at all.

“Say it,” Rick said, low in his ear, pulling out again. 

Daryl shuddered, not knowing what Rick wanted him to say and wanting to be told to do it anyway.

“Say you understand how good you are.”

Daryl’s hips lifted off the bed and he wanted to get away. That instinct to escape, get away, so Rick wouldn’t know. So he wouldn’t _see_ how much Daryl liked it, wanted it, needed it. God, it was so humiliating; Jake used to call him a dog, the way he reacted to praise; it was just so _stupid—_

Rick’s other hand slid down to Daryl’s other thigh, lifting that one too—oh God, he really was gonna fuck Daryl with his legs in the air, his legs draped over Rick’s shoulders just like in one of Merle’s cheap pornos. Rick’s cock thrust deep inside him. “I wanna touch every part of you,” Rick said. “Say you understand.”

Jake used to try to make him say things too. Nothing like this, but Daryl couldn’t help but resist in the same way, because imagine saying that. _I feel good to you. You wanna touch every part of me._ God, it was fucking ridiculous.

“Look at me,” said Rick.

He couldn’t. 

“Are you paying attention?” Rick said.

Daryl heard himself make a sound.

“Answer me.”

“Mm,” said Daryl, trying to say something, anything, so Rick would stop talking that way. 

“Say it.”

“Yes.” Daryl panted.

“Say ‘I understand’.”

“Rick—” 

“Say you’re good. You’re good and I want you and I’ve wanted to fuck you for a year. Say all that.”

“Rick!” Daryl thrashed, hands twisting in the sheets.

“Come on,” said Rick.

“You haven’t,” Daryl said, breathing heavily, trying to calm back down, unable to look at him still.

“What?”

“For a year—you haven’t.”

“Think again.” Rick adjusted, changed the angle slightly, incrementally speeding up.

Daryl was so hot he couldn’t think; if only Rick would just _give_ it to him—“I can’t,” he panted. “I can’t—”

“I know,” said Rick, but Daryl didn’t know what Rick knew. Rick was still picking up the pace. “I’ll show you.”

Rick hiked Daryl’s thighs up even higher, wider, Daryl’s dick just flopping around, Rick leaning over him and kissing him—then Rick’s hand was on his dick, warm and solid and firm, kinda rough, and—

Daryl thrust into it. He was gonna lose his mind; it was too much. He couldn’t think, Rick inside him and kissing him and touching him at the same time; it was too much, having them all at once. Daryl couldn’t concentrate; his whole brain was burning; his face felt like it was gonna melt off with sweat, but Rick was still kissing him, stroking his cock—almost calmly, Rick utterly in control, _I’ve wanted to fuck you for a year—_

Daryl couldn’t catch his breath. He was gonna hyperventilate.

“Put your hands on me, sweetheart,” Rick murmured. “Come on and touch me just a little.”

Daryl touched Rick’s back—tentatively, wanting to feel all that smooth skin but instead just stroking down his shoulder blade—

“Fuck,” Rick said, and then he was finally fucking him—harder and faster.

Daryl flattened his hand on Rick’s back so he could hold on. 

“Daryl,” Rick said, and then he was coming—Daryl was pretty sure he was coming, the way Rick’s hips were going, the way Rick finally stopped kissing him, the way Rick’s hand went slack on Daryl’s dick. The way Daryl could finally look at him.

Goddamn, Rick was gorgeous. His shoulders, his arms, his hands, his fucking face. Lips pulled back and eyes finally closed tight to come. Hair so thick and wavy he looked like a shampoo commercial. Goddamn.

When Rick’s hips slowed, Daryl didn’t know what to do. Took his hand off Rick’s back, looked away—feeling a little guilty at how hungrily he’d stared, drinking it all in while Rick came—then Rick was kissing him.

Jesus. What was it about kissing—

When Rick pulled out, Daryl’s throat constricted at the loss of him. Rick was getting off of him, pushing him—and then Rick was behind him, spooning him, pulling off the dirty condom and—doing something with it; Daryl didn’t know. Rick’s spent dick was against Daryl’s used-up ass, hot breath across Daryl’s ear, cheek. Then a warm hand was closing around Daryl’s dick and Rick’s gravelly voice said, “You’re gonna come for me.”

Daryl’s hips bucked in surprise. He’d kinda forgotten about his own cock.

Rick’s hand loosened, came back up, brushed Daryl’s mouth. “Get it wet,” Rick said.

Rick wanted him to lick it. Jesus Christ. Daryl couldn’t do it—just the thought of sticking out his tongue and tasting Rick’s palm made his entire face feel like it was on fire, he _couldn’t_.

“Come on, darlin’, lick it for me,” said Rick and Daryl’s hips jerked wildly.

He couldn’t help it, fuck—

“Shit,” said Rick, and took his hand away.

Dammit, no, Daryl wanted to lick it; he wanted to do what Rick said; Rick had said—he’d said—

_Darlin’—_

Then Rick’s hand was back on Daryl’s dick—wetter, now, sliding easier. He must’ve licked it himself and Daryl burned with shame, the thought of Rick having to do that, the thought of Rick’s saliva on his cock. Goddamn, Rick’s saliva on his cock—

“You’re doing good,” Rick murmured in Daryl’s hair. Rick had begun stroking him, and Daryl needed—he needed—he just needed Rick to say a little more, just do a little more, because Daryl was almost there. 

Daryl closed his eyes tight and tried to concentrate, _you’re doing good_ , Rick’s limp cock up against his ass, the way Rick looked when he’d come, _put your hands on me, sweetheart—_ Daryl made a sound, his hand twitching.

“Do it,” said Rick. “Touch yourself; make yourself feel good. Do anything you want.”

Rick was already touching him but Daryl brought his hand down uncertainly.

Rick said, “I’ll do anything you want.”

Daryl was reaching for his balls but somehow his fingers brushing the back of Rick’s hand on his cock was what made him come, that and _I’ll do anything you want._ He was jerking uncontrollably in Rick’s hand, not even knowing if he liked it. He just needed it; he needed this so bad and Rick let go, let Daryl shoot against the bed and Rick wrapped his arm around him, held him as he came. Kissed his neck, nosed inside his collar and kissed under his hair, soft hot kisses over and over, arm tight across Daryl’s chest, his shirt.

“Good,” Rick murmured into his hair when he was done. “That was amazing, getting to watch you.”

Daryl convulsed again, like an aftershock. Goddamn.

Rick kept kissing his neck until finally he wasn’t, just holding him and breathing against him. Long, steady warm breaths, like he was sleeping.

Usually Daryl was drained after sex, suffused with a bereft feeling that was in most ways good. He didn’t have to think; he could finally relax. That blankness filled him now, except every other moment a new thought rose like a ghost—transient, ephemeral, but still inescapable. His brain flinched from them but as soon as he found that emptiness again, another thought came to haunt him.

The way Rick had held his legs up to fuck him.

The sounds Daryl had made.

How disappointed Rick had looked.

How Rick had used a condom because Daryl was probably sick. 

Daryl probably had AIDS. Or like, he didn’t know, syphilis. 

Rick’s cock inside his body, Rick kissing him, touching him, oh God.

 _Sweetheart_.

 _Darling_.

Daryl felt terrified. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t calm down. He needed a cigarette.

Rick made a soft sound behind him. “You hungry?”

Daryl couldn’t even fit his brain around the question.

Kissing his neck again, Rick got out of bed. Rustling sound—Rick tugging up his jeans. He hadn’t even gotten them all the way off to fuck him, then walked out of the room.

Daryl should get off the bed and stop thinking these things. Off the bed and do something. Lying here with his ass out, come in the sheets. Stop thinking these things.

Stop thinking these things.

When Rick came back he had the plastic bag with the food in it. Sat on the bed beside Daryl. Reached in the bag, pulled out the sandwich he’d gotten—then just started eating. Eating like he hadn’t been just fucking him, like Daryl hadn’t come all over the sheets, and it wasn’t that unusual. 

Sometimes after sucking someone off behind that gay bar Daryl would just go straight back in and have a beer and French fries. Daryl and Jake ate between fucking, like a refuel; sometimes they even did it in the bed. But this had been—

“Eat,” Rick told him, putting the other sandwich into Daryl’s hand.

Now Daryl had this sandwich in his hand, lying here without pants on his come-stained bed, Rick eating beside him. Christ, it was so—it was just so fucking weird. Daryl didn’t understand what was wrong with himself.

The sandwich was beginning to drip. Rick was gonna think he was pathetic. 

Finally sitting up, Daryl started eating the sandwich because he didn’t know what else to do. It was barbecue. He couldn’t taste it. It was messy. 

Daryl took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Took another one, chewed swallowed. Then Rick leaned in and Daryl flinched.

“I wasn’t,” Rick began, but then didn’t finish. He looked away. “Go on and eat.”

Daryl watched him warily, kinda wishing he hadn’t shied away, wondering what Rick had wanted. Kissing while eating wasn’t something you did, but maybe it was something _Rick_ did. But Rick went back to eating, so Daryl went on eating too, keeping his eye on Rick in case he wanted—anything, really. 

The sandwich got sloppy towards the end so Daryl had to look down at it, stuff falling out of it so Daryl had to shove it back in—pork covered in sauce, so he licked his fingers. Once he was done, the sauce had dripped on his palm so he licked that too and Rick was looking at him. “What?” said Daryl, looking up from licking his hand.

“At least let me . . .” Wadding up the empty paper wrapper from his sandwich, Rick threw it aside, then leaned in. He started licking Daryl’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Daryl said. “Rick.”

The Rick kissed his mouth and Daryl hadn’t even fucking _swallowed_ everything; there was probably sauce on his teeth. Daryl swallowed quickly and Rick just kept on kissing him, tongue licking his gums like he wanted to taste. 

Rick was kinda nasty. 

He just went for it—all of it, pulled the dirty paper out of Daryl’s hand and tossed it somewhere. Rick wasn’t very _clean_ was the thing, and he was still kissing Daryl. When he pulled away he just brought up Daryl’s hand up again to suck on his fingers in this completely obscene way and at least it wasn’t the hand Daryl had used to open himself up. At least it wasn’t that, and Rick went back to kissing his mouth.

They were gonna get sticky and stained and gross, and Rick didn’t seem to care. He pushed Daryl down on the bed, kissing him languidly. “What’re you doing tomorrow night?” he asked between kisses.

“What?”

“Tomorrow.”

Daryl couldn’t think.

“It’s a Tuesday,” said Rick, working his mouth on Daryl’s jaw.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Daryl said stupidly.

“Yeah,” Rick whispered in his ear.

“I,” Daryl began. “I got Carol,” he finally managed to say. “And Sophia.”

“What about the day after that?”

“The day after?”

“Yeah,” said Rick, kissing down his neck. 

“I—nothing.”

“You wanna come over?” Rick’s thumb found that spot on his hip, just under his shirt, started rubbing, and Daryl jumped in surprise. It tickled. Rick stopped rubbing. “You wanna?”

“Yeah.” Daryl swallowed. “If you—yeah.”

“Good.” Rick kissed him again.

Rick kissed him for a long time, just lying there in bed with him, Rick with his shirt off and Daryl without his pants. Eventually Rick rolled them over, settled in behind, big spoon like before, but he didn’t touch Daryl’s cock, which was frankly not very interested after everything. Rick didn’t seem interested either, just seemed like he wanted to—Daryl couldn’t tell—hold him and touch him, press up against him, stroke his hip some more. Like cuddling. Like Carol did with Sophia sometimes on the couch, only—adults didn’t do this. Not just lying around like this, this constant touching.

Daryl was tired of it. Exhausted. It felt like so much, just being touched, and he didn’t know what Rick wanted. He didn’t know what he should do, unsure how much longer he could handle it, only he didn’t want Rick to stop. He never wanted Rick to stop.

“What’re you and Carol doing?” Rick asked, stroking Daryl’s hip, breathing into his ear. “Tomorrow.”

Daryl licked his lips. “Said I’d take her out.”

“Yeah?” Rick sounded like he liked that for some reason.

“Yeah. I’m gonna get Sophia chocolates,” he added, nonsensically.

“Mm.”

“In a heart,” Daryl added. “It’s gonna piss her off.”

Rick’s mouth curved against Daryl’s shoulder.

“She says Valentine’s Day is stupid,” Daryl explained.

“She’s not wrong.”

“Yeah, but she don’t really think that. Carol thinks that, and I think that, but Sophia. She thinks Valentine’s Day is the shit.”

The curve grew wider on Daryl’s shoulder.

“You know, her and Carl would get along real well,” Daryl pointed out.

Rick turned him over and kissed him. Climbed on top, straddled him. Pressed down.

“Christ,” said Daryl. “You wanna go again?”

Rick dragged the seam of his jeans along Daryl’s cock. “Do you?”

Daryl’s eyes flicked down to his cock, half-hard against Rick’s jeans. “Lemme suck you.”

Rick stopped moving his hips. “Okay,” he said softly, after a long moment. “If that’s what you want.”

Daryl nodded and Rick got off, Daryl moving down the bed, trying not to show how eager he was for this. He wanted to do better than last time, make Rick lose control—better than the sex had been, because Daryl had felt like he didn’t know what he was doing, not with Rick facing him and touching him and kissing him and saying those things, spreading his legs like that. But here Daryl was in control. He knew what to do, wanted to make Rick fuck his mouth—

But even with Daryl’s mouth going to town on him, Rick just still did those little circles, just violent little jerks of his hips—like it was some kinda contest, like he’d get some kinda reward just for remaining in control, his hands fisted in the sheets. Coming was gonna take longer anyway as he’d already come twice, and it weren’t like Rick was young. Daryl grabbed one of Rick’s hands and put it in his hair.

“Christ.” Rick’s hand tightened. “I’m gonna come.”

Like before, Rick didn’t feel anywhere close, but like before his balls were tight.

“Daryl.” Rick tugged at his head. “I don’t wanna—please—” 

Rick yanked his hair and Daryl moaned.

“Shit,” said Rick, and came.

Afterwards Daryl moved back up the bed, feeling a bit better about everything. He wasn’t sure about anything else but he was pretty sure that had been a good one—Rick had come really hard and Daryl had swallowed it all. At least he got some of Rick’s come even if the rest of it was in a condom somewhere, and he was aware that was a sick, pathetic thought but he didn’t care.

Rick was still breathing hard, too fucked out to even try to kiss him for once, strewn out like a noodle on the bed and that was good. Daryl’d done a really good job with that. Rick wasn’t trying to cuddle him either, and for the first time all evening Daryl felt relaxed. Not being touched was a relief; he could finally feel his own skin.

He still wanted a cigarette, though.

After another few minutes, Daryl got off the bed, pulled his jeans on. Turned back to Rick, who was watching him. It was getting late, but Rick didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon, and Daryl wasn’t sure what to do. When Jake came over for a quick one he usually left by now. If he stayed for longer, both or at least one of them by this time would’ve been high out of their minds. But Daryl and Rick both had work tomorrow, and Rick said he wanted to come back Wednesday.

Meanwhile Rick looked pornographic lying there with his just-fucked hair, slack mouth, long legs. Daryl couldn’t think.

He left the room, wanting a cigarette, trying to do something else instead. Wash his hands. Face. Get a drink of water. He kinda wanted to scrub his mouth out. He kinda wanted the taste of Rick’s come in his mouth for as long as possible. God. Fuck. Rick.

Wednesday.

Rick wanted to see him again Wednesday; he wanted to fuck him again—or he wanted . . . whatever he wanted. _I didn’t come here for sex_ , he’d said.

Wednesday.

Daryl gulped a glass of water down.

When he got back to the room, Rick was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt still off, jeans still undone.

“We need to talk,” said Rick.

Daryl froze. 

What about Wednesday?

“Daryl,” said Rick.

 _What_ , Daryl wanted to scream.

Rick sighed. Shook his head. Like he was seeing something he didn’t like—which maybe he didn’t, except he did. He’d said so, that he liked Daryl. He’d fucked him because he’d liked him. He’d fucked him; Rick had fucked him. He couldn’t undo it.

“What.” Daryl swallowed. “What’s there to talk about?”

For a long moment, Rick just looked at him. Then he looked away. “That night Carol shot her husband,” he said. 

It wasn’t what Daryl expected. He didn’t know what he expected. Like Rick was gonna talk about their _relationship_ or something, set up parameters or something, and Daryl didn’t wanna think about it. He didn’t ever wanna consider it, what they were doing.

He just wanted to be there any time Rick wanted him. Any time he was looking for a fuck, Daryl wanted to be there.

“You stayed at the station all night,” Rick went on. That night Carol shot her husband. “Everything was fucked. Carol, her little girl. And there you were, steady as a rock. Waiting for her lawyer, like it was your job to take care of everything.”

Daryl hitched a shoulder. “It weren’t—”

“Don’t.” Rick glared at him. “Just—don’t. Don’t shrug it off.” A long pause. Rick went back to looking at his hands. “I thought you were in love with her.”

Daryl stared at him. “Carol?”

“I knew by then I didn’t have that. What I thought I’d had, with Lori. Someone who would be there for me, like you were for Carol. You were so . . .” Rick’s gaze lifted. “You were everything I thought I’d lost, and you were just so fucking hot I hated myself for it.”

“Stop,” said Daryl, his throat beginning to close.

“I was so fucking jealous of her. Of Carol.” Rick stood up. Came toward him. “She was being arrested for shooting her husband and her little girl didn’t have a home to go to and I was still fucking _jealous_. Because she had someone like you.”

Daryl’s skin was crawling. He couldn't stand this. He couldn’t stand there and _listen_ to this—

“I’ve wanted you,” said Rick. He was closer now, too close. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. It didn’t have anything to do with what happened at that trial.”

“Rick,” Daryl said harshly. Christ, Rick needed to shut up. 

Rick looked him over. 

Daryl was against the doorframe. He didn’t remember if he’d come farther into the room when Rick began talking. His hand was gripping the frame behind him hard, nails trying to claw into the wood.

Rick’s eyes narrowed, head tilting. “You get what I’m telling you?”

Daryl tried to nod. He knew Rick wanted him to nod. He knew Rick wanted an answer, but—

But it was all a little much, and sounded just like bullshit, except Rick wouldn’t bullshit; it was Rick and he was a cop—

Daryl was still trying to nod—

He managed to. He thought.

“Okay.” Rick took the last step and kissed him then, Rick’s warm soft lips. Daryl opened his mouth for him and Rick sank deeper, tongue flicking against Daryl’s, soft and strong. Rick pulled away, hand cradling Daryl’s cheek. “Okay.”

Daryl pulled away because it weren’t like he was an idiot. He wasn’t some injured mutt, kicked around so much he couldn’t understand. He _got_ what Rick was trying to say; it was just a little much, that was all. It was just so fucking much, and the only thing Daryl could think to say was Rick was real fucking queer, and that was not at all what Daryl wanted to say; he wanted to say something else entirely.

“I’m.” Daryl swallowed hard. He wanted to show Rick he understood what he meant. “So I should still come Wednesday?”

Rick looked perplexed for a moment. Then his expression softened. “Yeah,” he said, his voice that gentle one he used to soothe. “I’m . . . yeah, Daryl. I want you to come on Wednesday.”

He sounded real nice but his eyes had dimmed a little, like maybe he was disappointed, which was frustrating. What, that wasn’t enough? Did Daryl have to fucking spell it out that he understood? Did he have to fucking quote Shakespeare here? Daryl nodded across the room. “Shirt’s over there.”

“Yeah,” Rick said again. “Okay.” Turning away, he went and got his shirt, pulled it on. Got shoes and socks on too, put himself back in order. Rick went to go wash off, and afterward, Daryl walked him over to the front door, opened it. 

Before stepping through, Rick put his hand on the door, pushing it shut again. His brows were drawn together, lines in his forehead. He looked frustrated. “I’m serious about this. About you.”

Daryl bit his lip.

“That’s all I meant to say,” said Rick. “I’m not fucking around. That night in the park—I was never fucking around.”

Daryl looked at the floor. “I realized. After,” he mumbled.

“That’s fine. Don’t do it again.”

Swallowing, Daryl nodded.

Rick took a swift breath, then kissed him again, up against the door. Seemed like his favorite thing, getting Daryl up against doors, but this kiss was gentle. Firm. Less to get something than to show something. He pulled away. “I’m never gonna fuck with you. Ever.”

Daryl’s eyes scanned Rick’s face. Then he nodded, once, because this much was easy to accept. It was Rick.

Rick kissed him again and Daryl opened his mouth—eagerly, getting used to it now. God, the way Rick kissed.

When Rick pulled away he groaned, forehead pushing against Daryl’s.

“Wednesday,” Daryl said.

“Yeah.” Rick made a little noise, like a sigh. “Wednesday.”

Daryl opened the door, and Rick walked off into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to rewrite part of this and it just would not happen, so here you go, sooner than I thought.

Carol, Daryl, and Sophia went to an Outback for Valentine’s Day. Daryl had said he’d wanted to take them somewhere real nice, so he’d picked out this one. Carol had laughed at him and he’d felt offended, and then she’d said, “Ed never even took us to Red Lobster,” which made him feel a little better. Although it sucked Carol never even went to Red Lobster. Daryl wanted to ask about Red Robin but he refrained.

Carol had dressed up real nice and Sophia had worn all black. “I’m mourning my innocence,” she’d told him. He didn’t know what she’d meant because despite how it sounded, he thought it pretty much one of the most innocent things he’d ever heard her say. She’d probably think he was laughing at her if he hugged her, so he’d punched her in the arm.

“You look like you’re in la la land,” Carol said, once they had their steaks.

“It’s steak,” Daryl said, which was explanation enough for being distracted.

The dinner was good. They talked about Carol’s work and Sophia’s opinions on Valentine’s Day, which still weren’t favorable. Carol was still looking at places with a real estate agent, but she and Sophia really liked a little house not too far from Daryl’s trailer park they’d seen last week. Carol was gonna meet with the owner next Monday night to talk about an inspection, she said.

After dinner and dessert, Daryl drove them home. Eventually Carol made Sophia go to bed and Daryl and Carol stood out on the porch, Carol drinking wine and Daryl with his hands in his pockets. Hershel had taken Annette out, and Beth was on a date. Maggie was somewhere in the city, probably with Glenn.

“You’re gonna spoil her,” said Carol, setting her wineglass on the balustrade.

Daryl had given Sophia the heart-shaped box with the candies in it. “Got something for you, too.” He took his hand out of his pocket.

“You didn’t,” said Carol.

“Yeah.” He held it up, silver dangling from his palm. It was a cross; he knew she believed in that stuff.

“Oh.” Choking up, Carol blinked rapidly.

Opening the necklace, Daryl draped it around her neck, but had some trouble with the clasp. “Can’t see too good,” he said, frustrated. His vision was just fine for far-away things but close up it all got blurry.

“Let me.” Carol reached back, her hand brushing his, and he wanted to her to touch him more.

He didn’t wanna fuck her, just touch her. He liked her so much and he didn’t know what to do with that, what you did with people you just liked, liked so much you wanted to be close and have it go on forever. Her fingers did up the clasp and he made his own curl in, drawing his fists away. Touching her neck was weird when he didn’t need to anymore.

“Thank you.” Carol turned to him and smiled.

The night was cool and Carol was so beautiful. Daryl wanted to spend the night with her—just her and the blackness and the sharp, brilliant light of the stars, but he had work tomorrow. Work tomorrow and Rick tomorrow night. Rick, fuck. Daryl was winding up just thinking about it.

“Are you okay?” Carol asked finally. 

Daryl scowled.

“You’ve seemed kinda distracted.” 

Daryl pulled at the dead skin on his lower lip with his teeth, chewing at it before doing it again. 

“Daryl?” said Carol.

“Once I had this birthday,” he said. 

Carol didn’t say nothing. Just waited.

“Kids came over,” Daryl said finally. “Ma made a cake—a real one. Merle, he’d got this—this red fire engine; you could roll it around. Ring the siren. He gave it to me. And Pop . . . .” Daryl turned back to look out at the night. “Pop gave me ten dollars. I remember it so clear—it was a ten-dollar bill, crisp as cucumbers out of the fridge. I remember thinking, ‘It can’t be real.’ Like it was too much; this couldn’t all be for me; some part of it had to be a trick or something. Some kinda prank.”

“What happened?” said Carol.

Daryl shrugged. “I turned nine.”

Carol faced the night as well, fingering the cross on her necklace. Orion was still bright in the night sky but now the dog stars had risen also. Guarding the Path of Souls, some Cherokee said. The Milky Way was a lazy river across the sky, smudged and glowing, away from all the Atlanta light. 

“For years,” Carol said, “I felt like if I was too happy over something, Ed could just take it away. If I was too sad, it made him angry. If I was angry—he was always angrier. He drowned out anything I could feel. Swallowed it up.”

Daryl’s eyes slid over to hers.

“Don’t mean it’s perfect, now.” Carol’s mouth quirked. “Not like it’s always a barrel of laughs, picking up the pieces. But I feel like I’m allowed to feel it, now. Both happiness and upset.” 

“Good,” Daryl said.

“My point is, you can trust your feelings.”

Daryl looked down at her. “I ain’t never doubted.”

Picking up his arm, she put it around her. They both looked up at the stars.

*

Rick called on Wednesday morning.

“Rick,” Daryl said, when he answered the phone.

“What time’re you coming over?”

“Seven?” 

“You wanna get dinner?” asked Rick.

Daryl’s heart was beating too fast, his hand tight on the phone; this was stupid. It was so stupid; there was only one thing he wanted, with Rick. Tonight. 

The pause went on so long Rick could’ve hung up, only he hadn’t. Daryl knew he hadn’t. “At a restaurant?” Daryl said finally.

“Yeah.”

“We gotta sit down?”

“It’d be nice.”

“Like last time?” Daryl said pointedly.

“We got dinner.” Daryl could hear Rick’s smile. 

“To go.”

“What, you want takeout?” Rick was still smiling. Teasing.

“I don’t know, man,” said Daryl. “You’re the one who couldn’t make it through a meal.”

A pause. “Well, we can go to a restaurant if you want.”

Jesus. Rick was fucking with him. “Rick,” Daryl said.

“I’ll take you somewhere good.”

Daryl wanted to glare at him, not knowing how to put it into words.

“Are you sure you don’t want to?” Rick asked.

“Pfft,” Daryl said, after another long moment. “Whatever you want,” because if Rick really did want it, they could.

“I want takeout.” Rick’s tone was definitive.

God. Daryl was gonna get fucked again. He affected nonchalance. “Whatever you want,” he repeated.

“Okay.” Jerking his chain again, Rick said, “Maybe we’ll get Italian food.”

“Rick.”

“Seven,” said Rick.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Rick hung up.

They were gonna fuck. They were gonna fuck again and this time Daryl would make it good; he’d make it really good for Rick. 

He could trust this feeling.

*

Daryl slicked himself up before going to Rick’s. He knew it was a nasty thing to do. His jeans were gonna get wet by the time he got over there, but he wanted Rick to be able to do it with as little trouble as possible. Slide right in without having to touch anything dirty or even think about touching it.

By the time Daryl got to the door of Rick’s apartment, he was sticky and sorta uncomfortable, knowing only a slut would do something like get ready to get fucked before coming over. He was trying not to think about it. Sometimes he’d gotten ready for Jake, but that was different, since Jake always came over to his place or met him at a motel. Daryl’d never been to anyone’s place like this before, expecting sex. He’d slicked himself up partly just because he was so nervous.

When Rick started fucking him, it’d be okay. It’d be worth it then.

Daryl knocked on the door.

“Hey,” said Rick when he opened the door. Then he pulled Daryl inside, closed the door, and started kissing him.

Daryl guessed he should’ve expected it. Rick loved kissing.

“You want a drink?” Rick said, pulling away.

Daryl had thought they were gonna get to fucking right away, thought that’s what they’d talked about on the phone. Then again this was Rick; who knew what he really wanted. Daryl shrugged.

Rick went over toward the kitchen so Daryl followed, walking slightly uncomfortably. “I’ve got beer,” Rick said, when they were in the kitchen. 

Daryl shrugged again, and Rick looked up from where he’d been leaning into the fridge. “Okay,” said Daryl, guessing Rick hadn’t seen him.

Rick’s mouth tightened but he didn’t say nothing, leaning back into the fridge to get some cold ones. They weren’t Coors but they weren’t too fancy neither—Sam Adams. Daryl could handle that. Rick opened them up, handing one to Daryl.

Daryl took a sip, mostly because he could tell Rick wanted him to, watching him with those two lines in his brow like he was worried about something.

“How was Carol?” Rick asked.

“She’s good,” Daryl said.

“Sophia?”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. Apparently they were gonna have a whole conversation.

“You get her those chocolates?” 

“Yeah. She liked them.”

“I thought you were getting them because she didn’t like them?”

Daryl struggled to think. Man, it felt like some kinda quiz. “Yeah. I don’t know. She thought it was funny.”

The corner of Rick’s mouth turned, but it looked unhappy more than anything. “Wanna sit in the living-room?”

“Okay,” said Daryl.

They went into the living-room, Rick sitting down at the couch, looking back up at him. “You don’t wanna sit down?”

A knot tied itself in Daryl’s stomach. He was gonna get Rick’s nice couch wet. “Nah,” was all he said.

Rick frowned, and Daryl didn’t even understand why they were doing this. Last time they’d gone to a restaurant for like ten minutes before leaving it to fuck. They’d agreed on the phone to get takeout because what was the point of sitting around, waiters serving them water, when they could be fucking. Daryl wasn’t good at conversation; Rick knew that. Daryl was really good at getting fucked. 

“How’s Carl?” Daryl finally said, because Rick was still frowning.

The frown cleared up a bit. “He went on a date for Valentine’s. Lori thinks he’s too young.”

“Ain’t he fourteen?”

“Yeah. He’ll be starting high school in the fall.” Rick took a sip of beer. “How was work?”

Jesus, this really was a quiz. “Changed the oil in a Buick.” It was literally the only thing Daryl could remember doing other than pushing his fingers into his own ass, thinking of Rick. “How was . . . police,” he said, because Rick never talked about work.

“It’s not _The Wire_.” Rick set his beer on the fold-up table next to him. That was new since the last time Daryl had been here. “It was fine,” Rick added.

Keeping his eyes on the table, Daryl took a swig of his own beer.

“What’s wrong?” Rick said.

“Nothing.” 

Rick tilted his head in that way that meant, _bullshit_.

“I thought—” Daryl cut himself off.

Sighing, Rick stood. “Daryl—”

“I got slicked up,” Daryl blurted.

Rick stopped cold, like something had banged him in the face.

“I thought,” Daryl tried again. “Hell.” He thunked his beer down on the table, took a step back. “Why can’t we just fuck?”

Rick’s head tilted again, like he just could not believe what he was hearing—so disgusted, so disappointed. “If that’s what you want,” Rick said carefully.

“Man, what do _you_ want?” Daryl’s voice was rising. “Chit-chat, long walks on the beach? You know what I’m good for. I wanted . . .”

Rick just stood there. “You wanted?” 

“It don’t take blue prints and a plan! I got it wet so it’d be easy for you.”

“Easy,” said Rick.

“I thought you were gonna bend me over and take it,” said Daryl. “It’s ready for you; I got it ready. It ain’t rocket science. Don’t you want it?”

“Is that what you want?”

He was gonna just keep _repeating_ things. “Man, I been wanting it every day since I met you.”

“When I arrested your brother?”

Daryl gesticulated wildly. “That night you led the search.”

“I didn’t lead the search,” said Rick. “You led the search.”

“What the fuck ever! Why you getting technical?”

Rick just stood there waiting, worse than usual with his impenetrability, nothing to be read but a big wrinkle in his brow and slight frown turning down his mouth.

Daryl didn’t know what he was saying, why he was saying it. He was humiliated and yet he couldn’t even seem to stop it, like maybe if he just said enough disgusting things about himself Rick would be repelled enough to do something about it. 

“Come here,” Rick said finally, after what felt like months.

Daryl wanted nothing more in his whole life than to go there, so of course his body wouldn’t move; his mouth wouldn’t stop moving. “I ain’t your call boy neither,” he said, walking instead in the other direction, then pacing back. “You can’t order me about, tell me what to do.”

“Okay,” said Rick.

“I ain’t a dog,” Daryl said.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Okay.” Then he came to Daryl and kissed him, hand sinking into Daryl’s hair, the other at Daryl’s hip. His lips were soft, tongue almost gentle, licking Daryl’s lips.

“Come on,” Daryl said, ripping his mouth away, putting his hands on Rick’s chest and pushing him away. “Rick, come on.”

“Okay.” Rick kissed him harder this time, pushed him back until Daryl was up against the wall.

“Rick.” Daryl rolled his hips, trying to get something, anything, because Rick had him now but he was still only just kissing him. Daryl pawed at Rick’s belt, needing more.

“Stop it.” Rick slammed him against the wall, Daryl’s ass hitting hard, head banging into drywall, and Daryl needed it like that. He needed it like that ten more times. He just wanted it so bad and Rick had just fucked him day before yesterday but it wasn’t enough; it was never gonna be enough and Daryl didn’t know how to live without it. 

“Rick.” Daryl heard himself whimper.

“I said I would,” said Rick, answering an unvoiced plea, but he didn’t follow through. Instead Rick kissed him again, hands at the hem of Daryl’s shirt. 

Daryl shoved Rick’s hands away, down to his jeans where they needed to be. He hadn’t worn a belt. He hadn’t even worn underwear. He’d imagined walking in the door and Rick just slamming him against it and fucking him, fucking him into oblivion. That was how Daryl had imagined it, and looking back on it now he saw how unrealistic it had been. Last time Rick had said he hadn’t even come over for sex.

Rick’s hands lifted up Daryl’s shirt again, and Daryl shoved them away.

“All right,” said Rick, but he didn’t open Daryl’s pants, instead keeping a hand on Daryl’s hip, where he seemed to like it, his other hand running up Daryl’s arm.

Trying to get the show on the road, Daryl reached for Rick’s jeans, but this time both Rick’s hands came down, clamping on Daryl’s wrists, locking them together and forcing Daryl’s arms overhead, slamming them into the wall. Daryl heard himself moan, felt his hips buck against Rick’s.

He wanted Rick to fuck him so hard he felt it for years. He wanted Rick to hurt him, damage him, because then he could feel it for as long as possible.

“Okay,” Rick said again, as if to acquiesce. 

Then Rick was yanking him away from the wall, pulling him and then pushing him toward the dining room, the table—oh God, yes, and then Rick was bending Daryl over it, forcing his head down. Yes, oh God. “Rick,” Daryl heard himself say, voice breathless with excitement.

Rick’s hands got under Daryl’s hips—between him and the table, unfastening Daryl’s jeans—yes, please—pulling down his pants—yes—touching his ass, and then—

“Don’t,” Daryl said, squirming away.

“Daryl,” Rick began, his fingers brushing Daryl’s crack, too close to his wet hole.

“It’s already took care of.” Daryl squirmed away again, frustrated because it wasn’t like it was easy, having done that, and now having to explain. But now Rick didn’t have to do that, get his fingers gross, feel that dirty place; it was just like a pussy for him. Daryl had already done it, got it nice and slick so Rick could use it. He should take advantage; goddammit, why couldn’t he just _appreciate—_

“Okay,” said Rick, sounding small and defeated, which wasn’t how Daryl wanted him to sound. Goddammit. “I gotta get . . .” 

But Rick didn’t finish, just moved away and left him there, and—condoms. That was what Rick had moved away to get, a condom. Didn’t have it right there in his pocket the way he’d had it last time, which meant he definitely hadn’t planned on fucking Daryl any time soon, which—what had they been talking about on the phone? If they hadn’t been talking about spending the night fucking. What had Rick wanted instead?

Quite belatedly, it occurred to Daryl that “dating” probably did not include slicking yourself up so you could get fucked the second you walked in the door.

But then Rick was back with his little foil packet, tearing it open and rolling it on himself, laying a hand steady on Daryl’s ass. That was okay. A hand on his ass was okay. It felt good; Daryl just didn’t want Rick getting dirty in his hole, good thing Rick had condoms. Rick’s cock shouldn’t get dirty either, all those diseases Daryl had. 

At least he didn’t have gonorrhea like Merle. 

Rick’s hand pressed down, holding him in place, and then—Rick pushed in. Hard. Completely the opposite of last time, it was so—then he yanked out and went again. Again. Again. Hard and fast and God, it was so—it was so—

“Rick,” Daryl said, his voice raw and kinda broken. This was everything he wanted; it was perfect in every way, Rick fucking him so hard he pulled Daryl away from the table every time he pulled out, slammed him back in every time he thrust, and goddamn, could Rick fuck, raw and deep and fucking burning every time. 

It was glorious.

Rick held onto Daryl’s ass as he thrust, pushing him down, other hand coming up to Daryl’s neck—oh God. Please, yes, and then Rick’s hand was pushing on Daryl’s nape, forcing it down, forcing his face down onto the table; Daryl’s dick was crushed against the wood, and this was everything. This was everything Daryl wanted, please, please, please—

Rick just kept going. He was like some kinda machine, harsh, grunting breaths as Rick thrust and thrust and thrust, oh God, Rick taking him. Rick _taking_ him, using his wet hole just like Daryl had imagined and Daryl felt almost frantic with it, that he could do this for Rick and Rick was using him this way, enjoying him this way, gonna come in him this way, even if it was in a condom. Even if it was in a condom it was so good; it was just so good and Daryl always got wound up at the idea of being used, of being useful. It always gave him a high. The thought of being useful to _Rick_ was making him kinda euphoric.

The burn was just so good, the stretch of his rim around Rick’s cock, the feeling of fullness and then the sudden shock of emptiness, over and over, hard every time, Daryl’s cock helpless and trapped against the table. And just when Daryl thought he knew what to expect, Rick would change it up just enough—slam in harder, or faster, just a little unevenly and Daryl heard himself moan for it, felt himself push back for it, oh God. He wanted even more.

Rick’s hand tightened on his ass, other hand sliding up from Daryl’s neck to bury in Daryl’s hair—strangely gentle even though Rick’s cock was just as punishing as it had been from the beginning. Then without warning, Rick was coming—he had to be coming, the way he slammed in so hard Daryl saw stars and Rick went still for a single, arched moment inside him. At last the moment ended, Rick pumping erratically, unevenly, despite the fact that up till now he’d been like a fucking metronome, hard and even without letting up once.

God, that was good. It had been so good; the only thing that could’ve made it better was to have Rick’s come leaking out of him right now and Daryl didn’t even want that. He didn’t want Rick to get sick; this was the best it could be, God. It’d felt so good. Rick had been so good and he’d used him up and Daryl wanted to stay here forever. Just forever, bent over the table, Rick going soft inside him.

Then Rick pulled out, and loss filled his place. Daryl could hear him doing something with the condom.

“Come on,” said Rick, tugging at his shoulder.

Reluctantly, Daryl eased off the table, standing up. Pulled up his jeans. Rick still gripped his shoulder, tugging at him, so Daryl went—then Rick was pushing at him, pushing him into the wall—Jesus, hadn’t he had enough—but apparently not. Rick surged in, kissing him, pushing Daryl’s jeans right back down again. 

Daryl had barely thought about the fact that his own cock was still hard. He was leaking everywhere. Then Rick licked his own palm and put it down there, wrapping around Daryl’s dick. Daryl heard himself make a little sound.

Then Rick’s hand was jacking it, slowly at first and then faster. 

For a full minute, the only sounds Daryl could hear were the wet fisting of Rick’s hand against his dick, the rustle of his jeans, his own harsh breaths. When Rick had been fucking him the rasp of Rick’s breathing and the sounds of fucking had made Daryl feel like he was gonna come unhinged, but this was different.

That had been for Rick’s pleasure, and this wasn’t. It was for Daryl’s, which wasn’t nearly as interesting.

Taking his hand away, Rick spit in his palm again, put it back on Daryl’s cock—not saying anything, just looking at him. Rick’s other hand came down to tug Daryl’s balls.

Daryl had to turn his face away. This was gonna take forever; he almost didn’t want to bother.

Rick’s hand kept going, hard and fast just like how Daryl liked except Daryl still was nowhere close, and Rick was just completely silent, not even saying Daryl had been good. Rick knew Daryl liked being told, as embarrassing as that was. Rick knew, and he still wasn’t saying it. 

Maybe Daryl hadn’t been good. Maybe Rick _hadn’t_ like fucking him over the table, only that was ludicrous, because who didn’t like a good hard fuck, and Daryl had gotten it ready and everything. 

Rick’s hand was starting to hurt on Daryl’s flesh, it was rubbing so raw, and Daryl usually wanted it to hurt except that it felt like a chore. The sound of wet flesh, heavy breathing, of Rick being so completely silent was unbearable. 

After too long without enough, Daryl finally heard himself say, “You don’t gotta.”

Rick put his lips right on his ear. “I want to.”

Daryl’s dick jumped in Rick’s hand.

“I wanna make you feel good,” said Rick. “Make you feel the way I feel about you.”

“Rick,” Daryl said.

“If you could hear the things you say about yourself. Those stupid, awful things you say.” Rick’s hand tightened around him, jacking hard. “You’d lose your fucking mind, if someone said those things about someone you care about. I know you would.”

Oh God. This was new, and different; Daryl was gonna—but Rick’s hand squeezed his balls, the other wrapping tight around the base, just holding there. _Someone you care about_.

Then the hands came off and Rick was sinking down.

Daryl yanked him back up.

“I wanna show you,” Rick said, pulling away. “Let me suck you.”

Oh God. Daryl pulled at him, needing him closer, needing Rick’s hands back on him.

Rick’s hand slid back around his cock, warm, firm. Just holding. “I wanna get my mouth on you,” he said. “Say yes.”

Daryl bucked against the wall.

“Come on.” Rick began stroking him again, slowly, other hand still squeezing his balls tight.

“Rick,” Daryl said, twisting in his grasp.

“Let me go down on you.” Rick kept stroking his cock—solid, hard strokes.

Daryl twisted again, trying to get something, anything— _now_ he was close, but Rick’s hand on his balls was cutting it off and he needed to—he just wanted to fuck into Rick’s hand, only he didn’t want to; he wanted Rick to—

“I wanna show you how good you are,” said Rick.

Daryl gasped, arching against the wall.

“Just say yes.”

“Rick.”

“Goddammit, Daryl, say yes.” Stroking harder, faster, Rick leaned in again, put his lips on Daryl’s ear again. “You’re not listening to me,” he rasped.

“ _Rick_.”

“I wanna make you hear it. Lay you down and make you believe it. What I think of you. What I know about you.”

Daryl convulsed in his hands. God, he was so close—

Rick tugged Daryl’s earlobe with his teeth, soothed it with his tongue. His breath was hot in Daryl’s ear. “Tell me I can have your dick down my throat,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Daryl gasped, lurching out of Rick’s hand as he came, the movement of his hips so violent he pushed Rick away without meaning to. 

Rick came back, holding him and kissing him and saying, “Good, that was good.”

Daryl panted. “But I . . .”

“I wanted you to feel good,” Rick murmured against his mouth. “You did what I wanted.”

“Jesus,” Daryl said, convulsing, “ _stop_.”

Rick kissed him again.

When Daryl could finally breathe again, Rick kissed his temple. Held his face and kept kissing him, languid kisses as Daryl shivered, cooling down. “Let me clean you up,” said Rick.

Humiliation flaring bright and hot, Daryl pushed him away. “I got it.”

Rick frowned at him and Daryl stumbled away.

In the kitchen, he turned on the sink, rinsed his hands. Found some paper towels, wiped himself off. He’d gotten come on his pants, luckily none on his shirt. His jeans were dark, so when he got another paper towel damp and wiped the denim, the wet patch wasn’t highly visible.

_Tell me I can have your dick down my throat._

Jesus Christ. 

Daryl didn’t even know what to think of that; it didn’t feel real. 

Getting fucked over the table was something Daryl understood, and he’d wanted to feel it, afterward. Wanted to feel that fucked out, empty feeling, feel like he’d done something good, like he’d been all used up with nothing left to give. Instead Rick had pushed him against the wall, said those things, and Daryl’s brain was a fucking mess. He couldn’t even think straight, mind zipping from thing to thing. 

What if he just went outside and had a cigarette?

Just one.

He could just go out and have a cigarette, and then he could calm down. He could feel good after that—be normal, with Rick, not act like a freak who took forever to come and flat out lost his mind at being praised like a child. He could just have a cigarette, just one.

Except he hadn’t brought any cigarettes.

Christ. He _was_ a child.

“You always got to be such a goddamn baby?” Merle used to ask.

He needed a drink.

There was beer in Rick’s fridge. Rick had gotten beer out of it; there had to be more in it. What would Rick think, Daryl taking a beer out of it, when the one Rick had given him out by the couch weren’t even half empty? 

But Daryl couldn’t think. He didn’t have any cigarettes. He was gonna leave or go crazy or—he was gonna do something; he had to do something, and he couldn’t go back out there to his half-finished beer because Rick was out there and Rick—Rick—

_I wanna show you how good you are._

God, Rick had said he was gonna suck him off. He hadn’t even asked for anything in return, just said he was gonna do it, and that was so wrong. Daryl’s dick was trying to get up again just thinking about it, but it wasn’t right. Rick shouldn’t—he shouldn’t do things like that. 

Daryl dried his hands. Opened the fridge. Found the beer, got one out, popped the top against the counter. Threw the cap across the laminate and took a swig.

Then another.

And another.

Just the act of drinking it made him feel a little better, before the alcohol even hit.

Eventually, Rick came into the kitchen. He must’ve washed off too, because he looked pristine and fucking perfect, but then again, Rick always did. Daryl took another swig of beer.

“You eat yet?” Rick asked.

“Nah.” Daryl had slicked himself up and come over here. He hadn’t stopped to eat or drink or anything else; the only thought on Daryl’s mind had been getting fucked, and now Rick knew it. Daryl took another gulp, like finishing was some kind of contest.

“You hungry?”

Shrugging, Daryl had more beer. Rick was obsessed with this dinner shit.

“Stop.” Rick grabbed the beer, put it on the counter.

Daryl was fixing to punch him in the face, and then Rick grabbed Daryl’s face and started kissing him.

That was okay, Daryl guessed. He’d forgot again, how much Rick liked kissing.

“Whatever you were thinking,” Rick pulled away to murmur, “just stop. Just . . . feel this.” Rick’s teeth scraped along his jaw. “I want you to feel this. Feel me.” 

Rick didn’t seem to mind he tasted like beer. Seemed to enjoy it, even, licking Daryl’s tongue and Daryl’s cheeks, like trying to soak up the taste. Rick didn’t seem to mind what a complete and total slut Daryl had been.

“Touch me,” said Rick, like a reminder, then went back to kissing. 

He’d said that basically every time and Daryl just kept forgetting; he wasn’t used to touching someone else. Not like this, getting to put his hands on someone just to feel them, but if Rick liked it, Daryl guessed he’d try. He touched Rick’s waist, where the shirt met his jeans. It’d been tucked in when Daryl first saw him but must’ve come out when Rick had undone his jeans to fuck him.

God, how Rick had fucked him. Daryl’s hands clenched in Rick’s shirt.

“Kiss me,” Rick said, then kissed him again.

Oh yeah, that too.

For the most part it was always Rick doing the kissing—Rick’s tongue in his mouth, Rick’s lips on Daryl’s face, Rick’s teeth scraping Daryl’s jaw. Daryl wasn’t particularly invested in reciprocating—he wasn’t good at it and Rick always knew what he was doing. There was too much to keep track of.

Rick’s tongue swept over his and then pulled away, like teasing—encouraging Daryl’s tongue into his mouth and Daryl tried, once again feeling like an idiot, his tongue big and wet and clumsy, too hungry. He didn’t know how to breathe while doing this—breathe and lick and remember to touch Rick with his hands as well. Daryl pulled away for a ragged breath.

“More,” murmured Rick.

_I’m trying_ , Daryl wanted to snap, but he didn’t want Rick to know he thought kissing was really difficult. Rick could probably tell anyway, the clumsy way that Daryl kissed, getting his tongue back into Rick’s mouth but forgetting what to do with it there. Rick reminded him, stroking Daryl’s tongue with his—oh yeah; Daryl wanted . . . he could lick Rick’s mouth, every part of it—but God, he was drooling; it was so—

“Keep going; kiss me; it’s good,” said Rick, licking up Daryl’s spit.

Daryl shuddered.

“Don’t stop,” said Rick.

Daryl kissed him again, sloppy and messy; Rick didn’t care. Rick wanted him to keep going so Daryl did. When Daryl began to try the other things—kissing Rick’s jaw, sucking on his throat, basic teenage necking—he received encouragement, _yeah, like that_ , and _more_.

Goddamn, Daryl was getting turned on all over again; he was such a slut. He’d come here and Rick had wanted to talk and he hadn’t been able to handle it, just a horny slut who could only think about getting his ass filled. Christ, he’d come here _wet—_

“Keep touching me,” Rick whispered.

Oh yeah. Daryl kissed him clumsily, hands still at Rick’s waist—moving a little now; he wanted to feel the small of Rick’s back. It occurred to him that he was allowed to feel it; Rick had asked him to touch. Daryl hadn’t really gotten his hands on him last time, when Rick had taken off his shirt, but Rick was asking for it—

Fumbling a little, Daryl got Rick’s shirt up—just enough to touch, get his hands on Rick’s bare skin, run his fingers over the curve of muscle into the spine, Rick’s spine. Rick was thin enough that Daryl could feel the knobs of it and Daryl’s fingers walked over it, pushing Rick’s shirt up enough to touch.

Rick ripped his mouth away. “Don’t stop,” he breathed, pressing his forehead hard against Daryl’s. “Please don’t stop touching me.”

_Please._

For some reason, Daryl thought about Jessie: her pretty hand, playing in Rick’s curls, almost like she weren’t thinking about it, like it was simply natural for her to touch him. Now she was gone, and--Rick didn’t have no one else to touch him.

The realization popped into Daryl’s mind like a lightbulb.

Daryl’s hands started shaking. He had to get Rick’s shirt off, get it off so he could touch Rick the way Rick wanted—just touch him everywhere because Rick didn’t have no one else to do it. He wanted Daryl to do it, and Daryl moved his hands to the front of Rick’s shirt.

“Yeah,” said Rick, pulling away to deftly unbutton the bottom half of his shirt while Daryl fumbled with the top. Then Rick took it off, Daryl ineffectively trying to help. “Please,” Rick added, when Daryl put his hands on him again.

Daryl could make Rick feel good, put his hands everywhere on him and have it feel good. The feeling of power it gave Daryl was like a drug; he was making Rick feel good just by touching him, skin against skin. Rick liked it; Rick needed it; Rick _wanted_ it, and now that Daryl’d finally gotten the picture, he could at least do a little better.

Rick tugged at his hip. “In my bed.”

They were gonna fuck. They’d just fucked and they were gonna do it all over again. Rick was pulling him but kept kissing him at the same time, dragging him out of the kitchen, through the living-room, down the hallway, pushing open one of the doors and still kissing him.

Rick’s bedroom was sad. A bed and a dresser, some boxes and a lamp. A stack of worn books, an empty laundry basket, another of them folding chairs. God, Rick. Daryl kissed him again, for once not caring how awkward it was, wanting to fill all those empty spaces.

Rick’s hands went down to Daryl’s jeans again. Daryl got his hands on Rick’s jeans as well, toeing off shoes as they went. Daryl was already imagining how they were gonna fuck, imagining himself on his knees in Rick’s bed—in Rick’s bed—he’d never had sex in anybody else’s bed before. Not like that. Not unless you counted motels—

But maybe Rick didn’t want it that way, Daryl on his knees; maybe he wanted Daryl on his back again, legs in the air, and Jesus, it was mortifying but Daryl would do it if it was what Rick wanted. He’d do anything Rick wanted—

“Touch me,” said Rick.

Oh yeah.

Rick was naked. Daryl was still wearing his shirt, but Rick had gotten completely naked, and Daryl hadn’t gotten to see Rick this way before. He looked a little smaller now; maybe because he was too pale, too thin. His ribs showed and Daryl thought he was beautiful, was ashamed at how beautiful he found him. Men weren’t supposed to be beautiful; they were supposed to be—other things, but Daryl thought Rick was gorgeous like a statue. A warm one that Daryl got to touch.

Daryl did touch, his hands on Rick’s ribs, sliding up—he was gonna get to touch Rick’s chest. How much he wanted to touch the hair there was embarrassing; how much he liked it was embarrassing. Then Daryl found the scar on Rick’s side, where he must’ve got shot—a raised bump, the skin tight around it. Daryl pushed his thumb into stretched flesh, knowing how that felt on a scar, how sometimes it got tight and—

“Daryl.” Rick kissed him hungrily, pushing him over to the bed. Pushed him down into it, climbed on top of him.

“Don’t you need to get a—” _condom_ , Daryl was gonna say, but Rick cut him off, kissing him again.

“No,” Rick said, when he pulled away. “We’re gonna do it like this.” Then his dick lined up against Daryl’s, touching with a little sting of wetness, and Rick thrust. His dick slid against Daryl’s, pushing against the hair at the base and dragging along Daryl’s abdomen.

“Oh,” said Daryl.

Rick did it again, weight settled onto Daryl, thrusting against Daryl’s skin, against his cock. “I’m gonna make you come with me.” 

“Rick.” Daryl arched under him.

“Think you can do that?” Rick thrust again, harder, the pressure of his body squeezing Daryl’s cock.

“I don’t—” Daryl bit his lip.

“I think you can.” Rick pushed again, a hard, slow drag. “Get your hands on me,” Rick whispered, and Daryl immediately complied, grabbing Rick’s ass because he didn’t know what Rick was doing, just dragging his cock against him, but he needed it harder. Faster. And—

Rick’s ass. Daryl was touching Rick’s ass. He’d barely even thought about it before, except to admire Rick’s slim hips. Rick barely even had an ass—just narrow, thin cheeks with lean pads of muscle and even leaner pads of fat, oh God, it was amazing. Every part of him was slim, frugal, none extra; Rick should eat more. He should eat more and get touched more and have more furniture in his room—

“Fuck.” Rick arched above him. “Come on and fuck me.”

Christ. Daryl didn’t know what Rick was asking him, but Daryl couldn’t help grabbing Rick’s ass and pulling him in harder; it was so hot. Daryl wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted; he wanted Rick to come down on him harder, so he tightened his grip, pulled Rick even closer to him, thrusting up his own hips to get closer.

They’d done something kinda like this last time, cocks sliding against each other, but now Rick was on top of him, all over him, naked and thrusting; it was so hot and close. Too close, Daryl was sweating; he felt like he was gonna combust. Somehow it felt more intimate than even Rick inside him had felt.

“Feels so good,” said Rick. “Keep fucking me.”

Daryl shuddered. He wasn’t _fucking_ him; he’d never fuck _Rick_ , but Jesus, Rick saying that, and kissing him; this was . . .

“Come with me,” said Rick.

Daryl’s hands tightened on Rick’s ass, pulling him in, bucking up into it. “I’m,” he tried to say. “I’m not—” _I’m not fucking you_ , he wanted to say, because this was important; he didn’t want Rick to think he’d ever do something like that.

“I know you can,” said Rick, thrusting against him. “You’re so good at doing what I want.”

Daryl lost the rhythm, writhing under him, hands loosening because it was too good; it was so much.

Rick pinned him down, leaned into his ear. “Get your hands back on my ass.” 

Daryl scrambled, hands grabbing Rick’s slim, spare ass too tightly, tugging it hard so Rick’s hips banged into his.

“Good,” said Rick. “Now we’re gonna come.”

“Rick.” Daryl arched against him, hands squeezing spasmodically.

“You can do it.” Rick’s hand slithered down between them, wrapped around both of them and jerked, hard. “You can come with me; I know how good you are.”

Daryl cried out, arching again, and Rick was right. Daryl was close; he was so close; God, he didn’t know why just Rick sliding against him was getting him so close, and Rick’s hand—Rick’s hand—the things he was saying . . .

“Do it with me, sweetheart,” said Rick, and Daryl lost it, coming with a groan.

“Shit,” said Rick, speeding up against him.

Everything was a blur, Rick moving hard and fast against him while Daryl shook apart, distantly registering the fact Rick wasn’t coming yet when he’d told him to do it together, but God it was so good, moaning and coming while clutching Rick’s ass.

Rick started just as Daryl was ending, still moving hard against him while Daryl’s dick was too sensitive, half-hard and waving around with the way Rick was moving, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter; it felt good; it hurt and it felt good, and Rick was coming on him. Rick was coming all over him and using his body to rub off against and God, everything about it was perfect.

“Jesus,” Rick croaked, slumping against him. Rick’s hips gave one last feeble thrust, and Daryl was still holding his ass.

“Jesus,” Rick said again, nosing inside Daryl’s collar to kiss his neck.

_I didn’t come when you wanted_ , Daryl wanted to point out, but that was stupid. Rick didn’t care; he was saying _Jesus_ ; that meant it was good. He liked it. God. Daryl had liked it too. He squeezed Rick’s ass again.

“Goddamn,” said Rick, biting Daryl’s throat.

“Yeah,” Daryl agreed, tipping back his head to give Rick better access.

“God _damn_ ,” Rick said again.

He kissed Daryl’s neck for a while and Daryl let him, trying to remember to move his hands on Rick the way Rick liked. He’d never really just—lain there like this, after sex, filthy and dirty. 

Well, he had. He _liked_ being filthy and dirty, used up, gaping wide open—that empty feeling where nothing mattered. But this was different, because he’d never lain there like this with someone else. He’d never wanted to do it with someone, but Rick wanted touching. Rick liked touching. He needed it, and Daryl could do it.

He could do it for Rick all night if Rick wanted it, hands moving up Rick’s spine, curling around his shoulders. A bitten-down fingernail along Rick’s shoulder blade, getting to touch Rick’s biceps, stroke his arms, back down to his ass. Daryl could do it all night.

“God,” Rick croaked. “You’re gonna get me going again if you keep doing that.”

“You wanna?” Daryl moved his hips, not because his dick was particularly interested, but maybe Rick would let him go down on him again.

“God,” said Rick, finally rolling off of him. “No.”

Daryl reached over toward his cock. “I could—”

“Jesus Christ, Daryl.” Rick grabbed his hand. “I’m not a machine.”

_You kinda fuck like one_ , Daryl wanted to say, but it sounded bad when he meant it in a good way, and Rick was kissing the palm of his hand.

Jesus.

No one had ever kissed his hand that way—over and over, soft, tender kisses, and that hand had just spent the last ten minutes full of Rick’s ass. Remembering the way Rick had licked his fingers night before last, Daryl pulled his hand away. His cock was trying to respond and he was tired; it actually physically ached.

Maybe he went to sleep or something, because the next thing he knew the bed was sinking down, mattress creaking a little, and Daryl didn’t remember Rick having stood up in the first place. “Here,” said Rick, handing him a wet towel. “I know you won’t let me.”

“Let you?” Daryl asked, incredulous, grabbing the towel.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Let me.”

“Jesus, why would you want to?” Daryl roughly wiped the come off. Rick just sat there watching, so Daryl got off the bed. He couldn’t wash himself off the way he wanted with Rick looking, and the humiliation of it was making his cock do these pathetic little twitches when no other part of him was even close to ready again.

Grabbing his pants on the way out, Daryl found the bathroom in the hall, washed himself off there. Got his hands washed real good with soap and wiped out his ass for good measure. Rick’s bathroom was unexpectedly messy, for all the rest of the house was Spartan—toothpaste and toothbrush and an electric razor, not that it looked like Rick used it much, shaving cream, scissors—for his beard, Daryl guessed. Mouth wash, face wash—the guy used face wash—aftershave, deodorant, several little bottles—pills. A sleep aide.

Daryl’s hand jerked away from the bottle, realizing he was looking and ashamed he had done so. He hadn’t meant to; it was all just there on Rick’s sink, and his heart sank at the idea Rick had trouble sleeping. 

Swallowing hard, Daryl dried his hands, put on his pants, and went back to the bedroom.

Rick was still just sitting on the bed like he hadn’t moved, still naked. Still beautiful. Daryl recalled how he’d thought Rick looked smaller, somehow, without his clothes, and it was still true. Rick really was too thin, and the way his shoulders curved, as though in defeat, made Daryl’s heart ache more intensely.

Rick was unhappy, was the picture Daryl was getting, and he was all alone. His wife had cheated on him; he’d lost his best friend; his son was still angry with him. He’d broken up with his girlfriend and what did he have to show for it—a chain-smoker with a record who’d called him a faggot, who didn’t touch him enough and didn’t know how to kiss.

Daryl went over to him. Rick looked up—smiled, corner of his mouth turning up. Daryl got on the bed behind him. “Let me,” he said, when Rick twisted to look up at him. Daryl got his hands on Rick’s shoulders. Pressing his thumbs against Rick’s spine, Daryl dug the heels of his hands into Rick’s shoulders. Rick took a big breath, then let it out slowly, his head dipping down so Daryl could work on his trapezius.

“You’re good at that,” Rick said softly, after at least a minute, Daryl kneading Rick’s muscles, pressing in again and again.

Daryl felt his chest go tight. “Knew a masseuse,” he said. Didn’t mention the masseuse used to fuck him, before Jake.

“Mm,” said Rick, hanging his head.

Freckles dotted Rick’s back, little dark spots on his nape, but lighter than his skin on his biceps, where he was much more tan. Daryl wanted to put his face in Rick’s curls, but knew that’d be weird, so he didn’t.

“Can we get takeout now?” Rick said, after another few minutes of Daryl rubbing.

“You’re obsessed,” Daryl pointed out.

“Yeah.” Rick’s head hung down even farther.

Daryl kept on kneading, not knowing if it was really the kind of touching Rick wanted, but it was pretty much the only kinda nice touching Daryl was good at.

“She was mad,” Daryl said. “Sophia, with the chocolates.”

Rick lifted his head a little.

“Said it was . . .” Daryl had to think to remember the phrase. “Corporate commercialism.”

Rick huffed a laugh. “Where’d she hear that?”

“Dunno.” Daryl moved his thumbs down along Rick’s shoulder blades, then under them, getting the heels of his hands back in. “She goes online.”

“Carl too. Lori says it’s a bad influence.”

“Carol . . .” Daryl bit his lip, remembering what Carol’d said but struggling to articulate it. He pushed his hands harder into Rick’s back. “She says it’s good Sophia talks to people on there. Getting exposed to different—‘different schools of thought’,” was how Carol had put it.

“Hm.” 

“Sophia didn’t mind so much later,” Daryl said. “When she realized the chocolates I got had caramel.”

Rick’s head dipped down again.

“She’s a big fan.” Daryl pushed his thumbs in hard. “Of caramel, I mean.”

“Don’t stop.”

Daryl worked his hands down Rick’s spine. “Said she knew I was teasing her all along.”

“Carl says all my jokes are lame.”

“Rick. You ain’t gotta worry.”

“What?” Rick twisted to look at him.

Carefully, Daryl put his hand in Rick’s hair, gripped his head, and faced him forward. “I’m working on those muscles,” he explained. “Don’t get them tight.”

“Worry about what?” said Rick, very studiously facing forward.

“Carl don’t understand you,” said Daryl. “But he’s trying.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Kids’re always trying.”

Rick shivered.

“Sophia wore all black,” Daryl said, after a minute.

“Kids do that, too.”

“For Valentine’s Day.” 

“You’re still worried about her fitting in.”

Daryl dug his knuckles in. “I just don’t get why she’d do that.”

Rick twisted, pulling Daryl toward him, kissed him. Kissed him again. Kissed him so he was pushing Daryl down on the bed, getting on top of him again.

“What?” Daryl asked, when Rick finally let up. “You didn’t wanna conversate?”

Rick kissed him again. “I’m not good at talking,” he said, lips moving along Daryl’s jaw.

Daryl was confused. “Thought you wanted to? Before.”

“I like the things you say.” Rick’s lips covered his again, tongue sweeping in, stroking along the roof of Daryl’s mouth. 

When he finally let up, Daryl had to struggle to breathe.

“I’m busy tomorrow,” Rick said, just like carrying on the conversation. “Probably the day after that.”

“Okay.”

“Got things to take care of.” Rick kept kissing down Daryl’s neck. Rick had said the same thing when he’d gone and broke up with Jessie, but Daryl tried not to be too concerned, holding Rick as Rick mouthed along his throat. “Probably ready Saturday,” Rick went on. “Come over Saturday night?”

“Okay,” said Daryl, trying to remember to touch him.

“I’ll call you.” Rick kissed him again, his hand moving down to Daryl’s crotch.

“Man.” Daryl pulled away, hot all over. “Thought you wanted takeout.”

“Later,” said Rick, and kissed him again.


	12. Chapter 12

Rick had said he’d call about Saturday night, but Daryl tried not to think of it. He had to get through Thursday, then Friday.

He went and he fixed cars, a Ford Fiesta and a Chevy Impala and a Hyundai, a BMW which made things a little more interesting, then back to a Mazda, which was depressing. Dating. Like what had Rick meant with _I wanna date you;_ what did he mean by that? Going to restaurants? The Mazda needed a new muffler. Daryl was tired of mufflers.

Touching. Rick wanted touching. While Daryl lay under a Toyota Camry, covered in grease, he watched his dirty, blunt fingers working and remembered the way Jessie’s delicate hand had skimmed through Rick’s hair. If that was what Rick wanted, why hadn’t he stayed with her? Why didn’t he get a girlfriend like a normal person? The Toyota’s suspension was fried.

After work, Daryl had to have a shower before going to the grocery store, convinced there was engine grease deep down in his pores. His hand splayed on the tile in cold water, but it didn’t help; he thought of Rick anyway. There were too many things, now, to replay in his head.

“I’m gonna make you come,” Rick’s voice said, low and hot in Daryl’s ear.

Daryl’s soapy hand was on himself, pulling before he’d managed to get more than a hand clean. In his head, Rick was just watching him, biting his lip and slowly dragging it against his teeth. “Good,” Rick said. “Like that. Kiss me.”

Shit. Before Rick, Daryl had never thought of kissing as hot. He hadn’t thought about it much at all, really, but now he imagined he was kissing Rick and fuck. Fuck, it was so hot. He was rubbing himself off so hard and he needed more, more of it, more of Rick saying those things—

“Touch me,” Rick said. “Get your hands on me.”

Oh God. Daryl remembered touching Rick’s back, his lips on Rick’s neck, his hands on Rick’s ass, pulling him closer. Closer. Closer. Goddamn, he was close.

“Fuck me,” Rick murmured.

Daryl banged his forehead against the shower wall, trying to make the thought stop. The sudden shock of pain made him come and he imagined Rick saying, “Keep fucking me.” Afterward, Daryl sagged against the shower wall. 

His mouth was dry. He opened his lips to the shower raining down on him, the taste slightly metallic but the coolness of the water refreshing. He wanted to sink to the floor and never think again, forget about the fact that he existed. 

He had to go to the grocery store. 

His bitten-down nails were still dirty, despite how long he’d been in the shower. Jessie was probably the fancy sort of lady that got manicures. The water was so cold, goosebumps were starting to pebble his skin. He scrubbed hard enough to make the skin red underneath the bumps.

Daryl got dressed and didn’t think about it. Got in the truck and didn’t think about it, went to the Publix and didn’t think about it. Got apples and frozen dinners, then got to the aisle with the bread, and thought about it.

Maybe it was the sex. Like Rick wanted those other things—touching and pretty hands with clean nails, dating and who knew what came with that, but he also wanted to fuck. Maybe he’d assumed Daryl would be freaky if they hooked up, like he knew someone like Daryl would want it in the ass. All the time. Maybe Jessie hadn’t wanted to get fucked the way Rick wanted to fuck her, hadn’t been slutty enough or dirty enough and Rick had heard what a slut Daryl was at that trial. 

Except Rick had wanted him before that. 

Rick had said he’d wanted him since last April.

The problem was, Daryl was _good_ at getting fucked. It was one of the only things he was really good at; Rick had _told_ him he was good, and Daryl was happy to be a slut for Rick. He threw the wonder bread into the basket and he was, in fact, really fucking jazzed at being a slut for Rick. 

At the end of the aisle, he got to the refrigerated section across the back. Put the milk in the basket and thought about what a slut he could be. He could make it so good that maybe Rick wouldn’t even mind he wasn’t a girl, ass and mouth available to him anytime he wanted—God, Rick didn’t have to do nothing to get it, nothing at all. If Rick wanted it, Daryl would just lie around, always slick, always ready to go; Rick could just slide right in and take him over and over, any time; Daryl would be Rick’s to use. There for his pleasure. Like ribs on a condom.

Daryl was getting hot thinking about it, thinking about just how useful he could be.

Along the back with the refrigerated stuff was the cheese, then the meat. Daryl got slices of American and thought about how Rick could fuck his brains out anytime, and that had to be worth something, right? Like Rick was just gonna get so much pussy if he stuck around. It was ridiculous how much pussy he’d get. Infinite pussy, Daryl thought, shoving bologna in his basket.

Daryl got the plastic bags out to the truck and knew it wasn’t good enough. Rick didn’t want that. Daryl _knew_ that Rick didn’t want that, a slut to fuck, just something to dip it in, a wet hole for convenience. Rick wanted more; he wanted other things—dinners by candlelight, talking, touching, someone who could kiss. Rick wanted fucking ballroom dancing, but it terrified Daryl because he knew he was no good at any of that. He didn’t know why Rick thought he could be good at it.

It wound Daryl up, trying to figure it out. 

Instead of home, Daryl went to the liquor store. He just need enough not to get it up again, enough not to have to stroke himself off again, enough not to think about anything.

He got a liter.

*

Friday, he missed work, forgot to call until noon. His boss weren’t too happy, but he just said don’t do it again, then Daryl ate three bologna sandwiches and threw up two. He drank a shit ton of water, and tried to sleep it off, because Rick had said he’d call on Saturday and Daryl had to be sober for it.

Christ, he had to be sober.

The thing with Rick was stupid. It was weird; it was ridiculous. It couldn’t last—but _Rick_ thought it could. Rick thought it could and Rick wasn’t stupid. Rick wasn’t ridiculous. Maybe he was a little weird. 

He thought Daryl could do it.

Christ, Rick _wanted_ him. Rick had wanted him for so long and seemed to think Daryl was all these things and Daryl trusted Rick. Rick was honest and good, the kind of man other people looked up to, and Rick thought Daryl could handle it. Rick thought Daryl was good for more than this. Rick thought Daryl was worth the try, so Daryl could try too.

He had to try. Try to keep it going as long as possible, try to be what Rick thought he could be—what Carol seemed to think he could be, even Sophia thought he could be. Someone who could do all this, have all this. Someone who could go to restaurants and have conversations, goddamn ballroom dancing. 

Daryl would try anything.

*

Saturday morning, Daryl went to a clinic.

*

Saturday evening, Daryl arrived at Rick’s apartment, holding a six-pack of beer. He’d spent the afternoon reading stupid magazines that had the word “dating” in them, among other things. In the parts about dating they didn’t say to bring beer, but in the parts about asinine things like house guests and parties and friends, they did. Even Jake used to bring beer on occasion; Daryl figured he probably should’ve brought something last time other than his ass, greased and dripping for it.

He had gotten the feeling Rick hadn’t liked that, Daryl slicking up before-hand. Rick had wanted to talk instead, because Rick was a nice person and not a slut obsessed with getting fucked. And even if Rick _was_ obsessed with getting dinner, that was a much more normal obsession.

This time when he knocked on Rick’s door, Daryl just had the pack of beer in hand and a ridiculous case of butterflies in his stomach.

“Hey,” Rick said, when he opened the door.

Daryl came in and Rick kissed him—Daryl should stop being surprised by that—and when Rick pulled away, Daryl held up the beer. “I drank yours last time,” Daryl explained.

Rick smiled, a downward twist of his mouth. Taking the beer, he walked with it over to the kitchen, Daryl following after, shifting foot to foot as Rick put the six-pack in the refrigerator. Rick wasn’t trying to make conversation like last time, and this was the first time Daryl was actually ready with conversational points.

He’d been planning to ask Rick when he was gonna come ride horses with him and Sophia. If things really dragged on, Daryl was gonna offer to teach Rick to play Fallout, since Carl loved Fallout and thought Rick sucked at video games—which was entirely believable. Part of the reason Daryl had thought about teaching Rick was so he could make fun of him. And because Rick turned into a stupid ball of cheese whenever anyone talked about doing anything Carl-related.

Closing the refrigerator, Rick turned to him. “I wanna try something with you.” It was only the second thing he’d said.

“Okay,” said Daryl, still shifting foot to foot.

“You don’t know what it is,” Rick pointed out.

Daryl shrugged.

“I want you to pick a safeword.”

Safewords were not at all among the conversational topics Daryl had prepared. Safewords were in fact in so far from the topics Daryl had prepared that he wondered if Rick even knew what he was talking about.

“It’s a word you use instead of no,” said Rick.

“I know what a safeword is.”

Rick had on this denim shirt and jeans, trim at his narrow hips and waist, stretched tight across his chest. Rick might be slim all over but there was breadth and muscle in his shoulders that Daryl liked. He liked it all—Rick’s curly hair and his strong thighs and the way his eyes matched the denim.

“I don’t need that,” Daryl finally said.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “But maybe you’d like it.”

“Why? I don’t say no.”

Rick stared at him.

“I wouldn’t.” Daryl gestured expansively. “There’s nothing you could do to me where I’d say no.”

“Daryl,” Rick began, but didn’t go on. Looked like he didn’t know how.

“You can’t hurt me. Even if you did, I’d—” Daryl heard what he was saying and made himself stop. “Maybe _you_ should pick a safeword,” he said, feeling surly.

“I have one,” said Rick. “Georgia.”

_What kinda safeword’s that,_ Daryl wanted to snap, but made himself stop and think, for once. Rick wasn’t saying Daryl was a sissy—well, he was, but he didn’t mean for it to be a bad thing. He was trying to be . . . Rick, the way Rick always was, cautious and careful and kind. Rick thought he could hurt him.

Didn’t know Daryl wished he would.

“You don’t have to do it,” Rick said after a while. “But I’d like you to.”

“Okay, whatever. I’d never use it.”

“You’d have to promise me you would use it. If I ever did something you didn’t like.”

“I told you, there ain’t nothing you could do.”

“You’d have to promise anyway.”

Daryl frowned, shifted his weight again. “What else do I gotta do?”

“Pick something you’d never say during sex. Don’t pick something that already means stop. Then you can say those things that mean stop if you need to, and I wouldn’t stop.”

That was kinda hot—the idea that Rick would just keep going, even if Daryl said no, not that he ever would.

“You want it to be clear, distinct, easy to remember,” Rick added. “It can be a random word.”

When did Rick pick ‘Georgia’ anyway? Was this a thing he used to do with his wife? Daryl didn’t know how he felt about that. Safewords were for kinky, disgusting shit, things with lots of leather and chains and Daryl didn’t know, cock cages and torture devices. He wasn’t in to that—except maybe he would be if Rick was.

Who knew, with Rick; he never said anything. What if Rick wanted to dress in leather and hang Daryl from the ceiling and torture his cock with big iron clamps—but Rick wasn’t gonna do that, and on the very off chance that Rick was, Daryl guessed he wouldn’t mind. He’d never got into that scene, but he’d do it in a heartbeat for Rick. It was better than ballroom dancing, anyway.

So Daryl thought for a while—something random, something he would never say. Something unsexy, and Sophia’s stupid vampire movies popped into his head. “Eclipse,” Daryl said.

“Eclipse?” said Rick.

Daryl shrugged.

“That’s fine,” said Rick. “If I do something and you don’t want it, you’ll say eclipse.” Rick paused. “Say you understand.”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t do this if you don’t want.”

Daryl shrugged again. “It’s cool.”

“I’m not going to stop if you say stop. Is that okay?”

“I don’t say stop,” said Daryl.

“Is that okay?” Rick repeated, as though he hadn’t spoken.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Daryl.”

“Man, I already said okay like five times,” said Daryl. “You planning to string me up by the thumbnails?”

Rick didn’t say anything, just looked at him.

Maybe Rick was planning to string him up by the thumbnails.

Daryl’s cock gave a little twitch.

Rick was just _being prepared_ , like he always was, with his condoms in his pocket and everything else. Knowing Daryl was a freak, having heard it at that trial, he probably just wanted to keep everyone safe. Shit, Daryl was screwing around with a fucking cop. He didn’t know how it’d come to this.

“Okay,” was all that Rick said. Hand reaching for Daryl’s face, Rick kissed him again, a long slow deep one, the kind of kiss that made Daryl feel ignorant about kissing in general. Rick’s tongue was in his mouth and Daryl just wanted to unfold like a fucking flower, soaking up the sun. “Okay,” Rick said again when he pulled away.

Hand sliding down to Daryl’s, Rick tugged, pulling him toward the bedroom. Fine with this, Daryl followed, pretty stoked at the idea that Rick was getting to business, even if that meant Daryl wasn’t gonna get to use his prepared topics. His prepared topics were shit anyway.

When they got to Rick’s bedroom, it looked different. One of the empty corners had a rocking chair, and the bed had a big headboard and footboard, both of them made out of wood. “You get a new bed?” Daryl was startled into saying.

“Yeah.” Rick pushed him toward it.

Daryl had thought Rick should get more furniture, but Rick had already had a bed, and it’d been all right. This one was a bit much in Daryl’s opinion, but then Rick was pushing him onto it and Daryl wasn’t gonna complain. 

“Stay there,” said Rick, moving away.

When he came back, he put a wad of black fabric on the bed, pulled Daryl’s hands toward him, pressed Daryl’s palms together. Then he began binding Daryl’s wrists.

The black fabric wound round and round Daryl’s wrists while Daryl watched, surprised into blankness. Daryl didn’t really know much about fabric, but it was soft. Silk? Satin? He didn’t know. It was kinda slippery, slick, not at all fuzzy, thank Christ. “I didn’t know you were into this,” Daryl said finally.

“You can say your word,” said Rick.

“Nah.” Like what was Rick gonna do, spank him? Daryl tried to pull his hands apart. The knot was pretty good.

Bondage wasn’t Daryl’s thing. He didn’t wanna _submit_ or anything sissy like that. He just liked it hard. Still, if Rick wanted to pretend he was edgy and play, Daryl didn’t mind. Maybe Rick really would spank him. It was silly and a little bit girly, but Daryl wouldn’t say no.

Rick had more black ties, looping them between Daryl’s tied wrists and then through a hook in the headboard. Daryl looked at it with interest, a strange feeling beginning to trickle down his spine. 

“Move down,” said Rick.

Daryl moved down, Rick stringing him up so Daryl’s arms were pulled up over his head. “You put that hook in?” Daryl asked, trying to identify why he felt so odd.

“Landlord doesn’t want holes in the walls. Can you pull on that for me?”

Daryl tugged. The bonds held. “You . . .” Daryl bit his lip. “You got this bed?”

Rick pulled the bonds himself, checking Daryl’s wrists again, the hook—everything.

“For this?” Daryl had to look over his arm at Rick. “You got this bed for this?”

“I was furniture shopping anyway.” Rick kissed him.

Low-key panic spread in Daryl’s chest. He wasn’t afraid of what Rick might do; it was _Rick_ , and nothing about him was the least bit frightening, at least not to Daryl. The idea of so much thought and attention all centered on him, however, was strangely horrifying.

Rick had planned this. He’d gone out and he’d bought a bed. He’d meticulously arranged the whole thing, him with his _things to take care of_ ; he’d paid money for it. Because he’d been thinking about Daryl. Planning to do things with him. Wanting to do things with him, thinking ahead of time, _paying_ for it.

“There are rigs you can get, for under the mattress,” said Daryl, trying not to freak out. “I seen them in one of Merle’s trashy pornos.”

“Yeah. I read about those.”

“You _read_ about it?” 

Christ.

Christ.

Like. Read it in what? A magazine? A how-to guide? The _library_? What did he look up—gay sex? Kinky gay fag sex? 

“I can untie you,” said Rick. “Say your word if you want me to.”

“No.” Trying to settle down, Daryl tugged on the ties. They were comforting, in a way. Even if he kept freaking out, he’d have to stay here, at least until Rick decided he was a sissy and untied them. “You can leave them on.”

“Okay.” Standing up, Rick took off his shirt, a process that Daryl still enjoyed watching. Being forced to watch from the bed while tied up was mildly interesting. For some reason, it made Daryl feel better about looking. There was nothing else he could do, trussed up like this.

Still, being tied up with black silk—or whatever it was—was kinda hokey. Like something on Cinemax.

Once his shirt was off, Rick didn’t take off his jeans, instead moving down to the foot of the bed and—untying Daryl’s shoes.

“You don’t gotta.” Daryl pulled his feet away. “I can—” He wanted to toe them off, but Rick held on.

“Say your word,” said Rick.

Oh, for Chrissake. Rick didn’t know shit about this stuff; that wasn’t what safewords were for. Daryl just wanted to take off his own goddamn shoes because having Rick do it for him was humiliating. Should’ve taken them off before he got on the bed, but he hadn’t been thinking.

Rick got them off, then started on the socks, and goddammit. _Socks_. It weren’t sexy, like the times Rick had unzipped Daryl’s pants. Daryl gritted his teeth through it, face flaming in embarrassment. It’d be over soon.

Then Rick was done, only he touched Daryl’s toes and drew a finger down the line of his arch. 

“Fuck.” Daryl’s leg jerked, the touch tickling more than anything else. “Dammit, Rick, quit messing around.”

“All right,” said Rick. “I’ll quit messing around.”

He said it like a promise, and Daryl found himself sucking in air quick. Opening Daryl’s pants, Rick began to tug them down, then pulled on the briefs too. Rick having to get the jeans and underwear off Daryl’s legs was kinda embarrassing, the way the shoes had been, but Daryl didn’t care, because Rick was gonna fuck him. 

Instead, Rick moved up over Daryl’s body until his face was over Daryl’s. Leaned in, kissed him almost carefully. “What’s your word?” Rick said, pulling back.

“You gonna check every two seconds?”

“Last time,” said Rick. “Just tell me you remember it.”

“Yeah, I remember it.”

“Okay.” Rick kissed him again, then lifted up the hem of Daryl’s shirt.

Daryl twisted away. Rick grabbed the hem more firmly, pulling it up.

“Don’t,” Daryl said, and Rick pulled it over Daryl’s face. There was a moment of panic—he couldn’t _see_ and he didn’t want—

Then the fabric was dragging roughly past his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He could see again and Rick was pulling it over Daryl’s raised arms.

“Rick,” Daryl said, but he heard himself this time—the panic, the plea.

Rick knew. He _knew_ Daryl didn’t want it and he’d done it anyway, but how had he known; Daryl hadn’t told him nothing. Rick had no way of knowing how he didn’t like having his shirt off.

Rick was doing something with the sleeves of Daryl’s shirt, tying the shirt in a bundle all the way up near the hook—the shirt wouldn’t come all the way off with Daryl’s hands tied to the headboard.

“Rick.” Daryl tugged on the ties, hating how his voice sounded.

Rick kissed him—not on the mouth—on the jaw. Throat. Down—down onto Daryl’s chest. 

Daryl was shaking.

Rick just kept kissing him. A line down his chest, down to his navel, back up. Everywhere.

Daryl heaved against the bonds. Fuck, this was—it wasn’t good. Had Rick tried to take his shirt off before? How many times, just like a pussy, had Daryl said no? Fuck, something was wrong with his brain; why couldn’t he _remember—_

_Dropped too many times when you was a kid,_ Merle used to say.

Fuck, Merle. Daryl didn’t want to think about Merle, not while—Rick was kissing him. Jesus, Rick was licking him, just licking his chest, sucking on his—

Christ. “No,” Daryl heard himself say, jerking on the ties again.

Rick scraped his teeth over Daryl’s nipple, biting, then back to sucking.

Daryl yanked so hard his wrists hurt, legs thrashing. “I ain’t a—” _fag, pussy, sissy, girl_ , because those were the types who liked their tits getting sucked, but he didn’t say any of it. He was all of them but one.

Rick was sitting astride him. When Daryl tried to buck him off, Rick just held him down and sucked harder. At last he lifted his mouth. “I used to love having that done to me.” Rick moved up, lips going to Daryl’s ear while his hand moved over to keep pinching and stroking Daryl’s nipple. “It drove me wild.”

_Maybe because you’re a fucking pussy_ , Daryl thought, but it was wrong. His brain was wrong. His whole brain.

“I’ll stop if you don’t want it,” Rick said. “You don’t have to say your word. Just tell me you don’t like it.”

Rick’s thumb kept stroking Daryl’s nipple and Daryl didn’t even know. He didn’t know if he liked it. His nipples weren’t particularly sensitive; they never had been. Some guys early on—he’d fucked around so much—had wanted to play with them but it was so gay. It was just so gay and he wasn’t a girl; he’d never wanted it or needed it the way he needed cock in his ass.

“Okay,” said Rick, when Daryl hadn’t said anything for at least a minute. Then Rick’s head went back down, his teeth scraping over Daryl’s nipple again.

Daryl pulled against the bonds, making a pathetic sound.

Rick ignored it, sucking now, his hand finding Daryl’s other nipple and twisting.

It was kinda like torture, only Daryl couldn’t tell whether the torture was what Rick was doing with his hand and mouth, or whether it was the hot waves of humiliation crashing into him.

In the scheme of things, Daryl guessed Rick sucking his tits wasn’t all that bad, even if it made him feel like one of Merle’s floozies. What he minded—minded so much he couldn’t stop thinking about it—was that Rick would turn him over, and then he would see.

Rick would feel sorry for him, which was worse than anything else he could have felt. But if Rick did turn him over—if he started to—

Daryl could say his word. 

Despite all of Rick’s warnings, the thought was entirely new.

Daryl could stop anything that happened anytime he wanted. End it with just a single word, and Rick would instantly obey. Daryl was in complete control.

Daryl’s cock was getting thicker just thinking about it. He almost wanted to try it, just to see it happen.

Instead he pulled at the ties, shifting his wrists against the fabric. It was soft, but the bonds were chafing with the way he’d been yanking against them. “You gonna do that all night?” he said finally.

“Maybe.” Rick’s lips moved against his chest.

Daryl tugged again. “You said you were gonna fuck me.”

“I didn’t say that. You assumed.” Rick’s mouth had moved to Daryl’s other nipple, which was good, since they were both getting kinda raw, and not really in a good way. It didn’t feel bad, just—if it was meant to hurt, it wasn’t nearly enough. Daryl didn’t understand why it drove Rick wild. 

“You got me tied up for this?” Daryl said finally, after another minute.

Rick’s lips curved against his chest. “You’re bored.”

_Kinda_ , Daryl wanted to say, but he didn’t wanna be a bitch.

“I didn’t tie you up for this,” Rick said, lifting his mouth off Daryl’s chest. “I did it for this.” His knuckles ran tenderly down the inner side of Daryl’s upper arm.

Daryl flinched, hard.

Rick’s mouth quirked. 

“What, you wanna . . .” Daryl struggled to breathe. “ _Tickle_ me?”

Moving up Daryl’s body, Rick kissed him there, along Daryl’s triceps.

Daryl tried to move away, which wasn’t easy given that his arms were pulled in a way that exposed them completely. “Rick,” Daryl said, meaning to tell Rick he was stupid. His voice came out sounding breathless.

Rick set his teeth on the muscle and bit down. 

“Fuck!” Daryl lurched in the bonds tying his wrists to the headboard. “What are you—what are you doing?”

After licking the spot he’d bitten, Rick’s lips moved around, over to Daryl’s bicep, bunched as Daryl’s arms stretched overhead. Rick laid kisses down there, too.

“Why are you,” Daryl began, but couldn’t finish. He could feel the scratch of Rick’s beard—coarse and stubbly, rough on his skin. Rick’s lips, the tender drag of soft flesh, the press of his mouth. His breath, humid on Daryl’s skin, the sharp hard flash of teeth—

“Rick.” Daryl tried wiggling away again, hot and restless and feeling so confused.

All Rick did in response was start in on Daryl’s other arm. Putting his hand on the first, where his mouth had been, he slid his palm down to Daryl’s exposed armpit. Rick’s fingers brushed the hair there and then travelled lower, the soft skin over Daryl’s ribs—

“Jesus.” Daryl shivered away, because it really was ticklish. He didn’t even know what that part was called. Rick probably did, with his _anatomy_. “Why’re you doing this?” Daryl heard himself ask.

Hand still stroking under Daryl’s arm on the one side, Rick moved his lips on the other side, up to Daryl’s inner elbow, mouthing the tender skin there. Pressing his nose against it. Dragging his fucking _face_ along Daryl’s arm like a goddamn fucking—a goddamn fucking _cat_. “Why not?” said Rick.

Daryl had forgotten he’d asked a question. “Because I ain’t—” Daryl cut himself off, tried again. “That’s not what this is . . .” Stopping again, he didn’t know how to explain to Rick you didn’t tie someone up in bed just so you could _nuzzle_ their fucking inner elbow. “It’s weird,” Daryl said.

Rick kissed him. Kissed his elbow, his triceps, his shoulder, collar bone. Kissed his Adam’s apple and by then Daryl was kinda trembling. He didn’t know why. It was stupid; it was so stupid.

“All right.” Rick kissed him again, then moved away. Got off the bed completely.

Daryl watched him walk away, shirtless, jeans low-slung on his hips, and it occurred to Daryl that this was a way Rick could punish him that had nothing to do with leather and clamps—he could leave him there. Leave him strung up like some kinda toy he just got bored with, leave him there until Rick was interested again—

Daryl’s cock hardened into fullness at the thought, and he didn’t know what was _wrong_ with him.

When Rick came back, he grabbed a pillow, and proceeded to arrange Daryl the way he had that other time—Daryl on his back, propped up on a pillow. Then Rick opened a tube, got lube on his fingers, and touched Daryl’s ass before Daryl had time to really think about where this was inevitably going.

“Rick,” Daryl gasped.

“Hold still.” Rick’s fingers fumbled at his crack, and Daryl thrashed.

His arms might be tied but his legs weren’t. Daryl’s foot came up to kick him but Rick was ready for it, having shifted attention from Daryl’s hole to his legs. Rick caught Daryl’s foot easily, pushed Daryl’s leg down, then got his knee down on Daryl’s inner thigh, pinning it to the bed. The only thing Daryl’s other leg could’ve done was wrap around him, so Daryl tried his hips next, bucking them to try to get Rick off of him. 

When that didn’t work, Daryl tried twisting away—anything to stop Rick’s hand from going between his legs again. Rick pinned Daryl’s hips down with slippery hands and Daryl writhed in his grasp, and then Rick got his forearm down on Daryl’s abdomen, mouth so close to Daryl’s erection that Daryl suddenly froze. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _think_ ; he only wanted to get away.

“Say your word,” said Rick.

“No,” said Daryl.

“Then I’m gonna make you come like this.” Rick eased his forearm off but kept his hand on Daryl’s hip. Then his other hand slithered between Daryl’s legs, Rick’s knee still on Daryl’s thigh.

“Don’t,” Daryl said, and Rick’s finger pushed in—slick, smaller than cock, intrusive.

Other men had gotten their fingers in there before. Jake was the main one who was so fastidious about it, but Daryl’d been with Jake for over three years and he’d been right: it was dirty. Daryl had always thought it was dirty, because it was. It was where you shit from, for Chrissake. They didn’t talk about that with all this gay rights bullshit going on now but it was the truth. There was a reason you got diseases from it. 

Rick began to push another finger in.

Daryl’s hips tried to buck him away.

“Be good,” said Rick.

Daryl’s whole body spasmed.

“Daryl,” Rick whispered. His knee eased off Daryl’s thigh, pressing down in the bed next to Daryl’s hip. Rick moved up, his hand still down below, fingers pressed tight in Daryl’s body. They slid out, pushed back in, less gentle than before. Rick kissed Daryl’s jaw, his throat, Rick’s beard scratching Daryl’s skin.

Fuck, Rick’s fingers were inside him. Rick’s fingers were _inside_ him, and the knowledge of where they were made Daryl just as hot as the actual presence of them. His face was on fire, but Rick’s fingers were slow, stroking his insides, dragging along his walls and pressing against his rim in the way a cock couldn’t; it wasn’t enough.

Oh God, his _fingers_ , Rick’s fingers, his hand—what if Rick’s finger got dirty, what if he had to see it; what if he had to _look_ at it; it was so gross; Daryl hated it so much; God, _it felt so good_.

“Rick.” Jesus, Daryl sounded like he was begging.

“Let me,” said Rick. “Just let me do it to you.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I want to.”

Daryl shuddered.

“I like the way you feel,” said Rick.

“You can’t.”

Rick eased his fingers deeper, then began work on adding a third. 

Daryl took a shallow, wet breath. “You can’t like it. It’s . . .”

Rick got his lips right on Daryl’s ear. “I got you wet,” he whispered. “And you’re real tight. You think I don’t like that?”

Still trying to breathe, Daryl bucked his hips again, weakly. He didn’t even know if he was trying to get away anymore; maybe it was just a token protest; maybe he wanted—

Daryl twisted, wanting to bury his face, but his arm was in the way. He jerked on the ties, but with less force than before. 

Rick had gotten the third finger in and with all three it felt full. Not deep like with Rick’s cock, but Daryl could feel the stretch at his rim—it _was_ tight. He just needed—he needed more than this, and Rick’s fingers were slow. Agonizing. Just—just shoving in there again and again, too tight to move or feel around, but stroking him in ways that made him feel fuller than he should, and then—

“Fuck!” 

“Good,” said Rick.

“Fuck.” Daryl thrashed.

“Do I need to hold you down again?”

“No, Rick—stop. _Stop_.”

Rick stopped, easing his fingers away from the spot he’d found, God. Goddamn. Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Rick kissed him—kisses along his neck, collar bones. Teeth against his sternum.

Daryl tried to catch his breath, to slow his wildly thumping heart. He’d felt that sometimes during sex—that sweet spot, intense pressure that made him feel like he _needed_ to come, but he hadn’t known you could get it with your fingers. He’d thought it was a hard fucking that did it, like suddenly it came alive if you could just pound it hard enough, but Rick had just _pressed_ it—

“You want it again?” asked Rick.

“ _Don’t_ ,” said Daryl.

Rick moved away, pulling all his fingers out. Got the lube from the bed and squeezed out more, then put his hand back between Daryl’s legs.

“Rick,” Daryl protested, trying to move away again. “You already—”

“I wanna finger you all night long,” said Rick.

Daryl tried to say _don’t_ , but it came out as this pathetic, broken sound, because he wanted it. He wanted Rick to put his fingers in and press that spot and keep on saying things like _I wanna finger you all night long_ ; he just didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to think about letting Rick do something so nasty, about getting Rick dirty, allowing it to happen. Rick couldn’t. He shouldn’t. Daryl shouldn’t let him, and suddenly it occurred to him that he could say no.

Daryl could say no and Rick would keep going. Rick would just keep fingering him, but it wouldn’t be Daryl’s fault. Daryl wouldn’t have anything to do with it. It would just happen to him.

“No,” Daryl said, just as a test.

Rick had four fingers working in Daryl’s hole now, wetly working in and out. He didn’t even pause.

Oh. Oh God.

“Don’t,” Daryl said, trying it out again.

Rick’s fingers thrust in, deeper this time. He was gonna get his knuckles into it. Goddamn. God _damn_.

“Stop,” Daryl said, voice gone husky with excitement.

Rick pulled his fingers out.

“Rick,” Daryl croaked. “I—” Fuck, how did he explain now that he wanted it; wasn’t Rick supposed to just keep—?

“I know,” was all Rick said. “I’ve got you.”

Daryl tried to see what Rick was doing. Tied the way he was, lifting his head was difficult; he couldn’t angle himself right—Rick was opening a condom. Good. That was okay. Good. Rick was gonna fuck him; that was what he really needed—

Then Rick was rolling the condom over Daryl’s cock, and Daryl didn’t know what to say other than, “ _Rick_.” 

Rick pushed all four fingers in, then put his mouth on Daryl’s cock.

“Stop!” Daryl’s hips thrust wildly into the air.

Rick put his lips around the head and sucked.

Daryl wanted his hands; he needed his hands. He needed to get his hands down there and rip Rick’s mouth away, get his face away, make him stop, make him keep going, make him go farther down, make him suck it, God, make him take it, make Rick take it all the way down. Daryl didn’t know what he wanted; he wanted it so bad. 

Rick’s mouth moved down on Daryl’s cock, back up, kinda unexpectedly messy. Uncoordinated. Daryl could hear the heavy sounds of Rick breathing, uneven. Not very . . . rhythmic, just real wet over the condom and warm, kinda . . . sweet almost, the way he kept messily licking and pulling all the way off to swallow and—

It hit Daryl kinda like a punch in the gut, the fact that Rick hadn’t done this, not in a good long while. When would he have been with a man—before Jessie? After her? Weren’t like Rick had gone around and sucked dick, not Rick and his _I’m serious about this_ , not Rick and his _I wanna go out with you_ , Jesus Christ. Just Jesus goddamn Christ, when was the last time the man even gave a blowjob, at the fucking _police_ academy?

Rick had four fingers inside of him, stretching him tight, kneeling between Daryl’s legs. Rick needed more space to get them in deeper, but Daryl couldn’t just spread his legs like a whore; he couldn’t just _let_ Rick—not while Rick’s _mouth_ was on his—“Stop,” Daryl said, and spread his legs wider.

Goddamn, it felt so good saying the right thing, the thing he knew he should be saying, Rick not listening to a word of it, his lips wrapped around Daryl’s cock. Those lips—soft and pink just like a girl’s; Daryl needed to see them. Lifted his head up just long enough to catch a glimpse. Jesus Christ. 

Rick.

There he was with his gorgeous mouth, full of Daryl’s cock, lashes resting on his cheeks. Daryl had never watched gay porn, and now there just wasn’t a point. Nothing would ever look as good as this. Nothing would ever be as hot as a man who looked like Rick sucking on cock—salt and pepper beard, cheeks hollowed out, lips made for fucking. 

Porn couldn’t look that good.

Daryl tried to spread his legs even wider, bending them more so his knees could splay for Rick, so he could be a whore for Rick and Rick would just keep fingering him, sucking him. Lifted his ass so Rick could get his fingers in deeper—his _fingers_. God. They felt different than a cock, slicker—Rick had used too much lube—pressing on inner walls, against the muscle of Daryl’s rim. God. God. Daryl lifted his ass more for it; he need them deeper.

And there were just these sounds. These sick, sucking, sliding sounds. Between Ricks mouth and the actual squelch of fingers in Daryl’s hole—Jesus. Rick was getting him _so_ wet. Daryl could take Rick’s knuckles. He could take his whole _hand_ , maybe. “No,” Daryl said, arching, just to hear himself say it, loving being able to say it, and the way Rick just kept working on him.

Because that was what Rick was doing—working on him. Like on some kinda . . . hardware project or wiring problem or plumbing, fuck, what was wrong with Daryl’s brain; why was he thinking this and why was it hot? Rick was sweating over Daryl with his shirt off, concentrating on nothing but Daryl’s wet hole and Daryl’s hard cock. Working to get him off.

Daryl wanted to open his whole body for Rick to work on, just make it completely open, let him in anywhere, let him do anything. God, Daryl didn’t even know what this was.

His face felt over-heated, his hair damp with sweat. Sweat was pooling at his lower back too, and Daryl just wanted to spread himself more, let himself take it. He pictured himself—tied up on the bed, spread and so willing for it, wet, whining and whimpering just like the mindless, helpless sluts in Merle’s pornos and Daryl said no just to hear himself say it, just to revel in the way Rick kept going, opening him wider and wider, licking him so eagerly.

If Rick kept going anyway he must not _wanna_ stop. He must want it, must want to keep going, want his mouth around Daryl’s cock and his fingers in Daryl’s pussy; Rick _wanted_ it. He’d tied Daryl up to get it.

Daryl made a sound and opened his legs still wider, lifting them, wanting to shove down on Rick’s fingers but up into his mouth, wanting both so bad his hips were starting to move of their own accord. God, he was—he was _fucking_ ; he wanted to fuck into Rick’s mouth, onto his fingers—“Don’t.” He loved how that word felt. “Don’t, Rick, come on. Come on.” Daryl’s hips fucked harder.

Rick took his fingers out.

“Rick,” said Daryl, spasming. “ _Don’t—_ ”

Rick pulled his mouth off Daryl’s cock. “Hold still for me,” Rick murmured, the low rasp of his voice almost lost against Daryl’s engorged flesh.

Then Rick shoved his fingers in—hard, deep, pressing inside—fewer fingers, now, than before—and then they found that spot, and Daryl couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Rick.” Daryl’s legs dropped down on the mattress, heels digging down so that when his hips came up his entire spine arched off the bed.

“I said hold still.” Rick planted his forearm across Daryl’s abdomen again, pinning him down, then covered the tip of Daryl’s cock with his mouth, his fingers still rubbing against that spot.

Daryl tried to arch again, pinned down this time. Rick tried to keep Daryl’s cock in his mouth, and really it was the inexperienced way Rick lurched after it when it slipped out that made Daryl come and keep on coming, God—Rick wanted it. He wanted it in his mouth and his fingers were in Daryl’s ass and he said he wanted them there too. He’d called it tight. And wet. He’d said he’d liked it.

Goddamn. Fuck.

Fuck.

“Come hard for me,” said Rick, no longer going after Daryl’s cock with his mouth. “Keep coming.”

Jesus _Christ_.

“That’s it.” Rick was petting him. Running a firm hand along Daryl’s flank, over and over again. Like you would an animal. His fingers had slid out of Daryl’s body and Daryl hadn’t noticed when, strung out high by orgasm, his hips still bucking against the bed. “That’s it; keep coming for me.”

“ _Rick._ ” Daryl jerked hard against the bonds. Fuck, there wasn’t anything left in him.

“Good.” Rick stopped petting, took the condom off. Tied it, dropped it over the side. Naked, now, Daryl’s cock was filthy, streaked with the come the condom had trapped inside it. “That was good,” Rick said again, kissing Daryl’s knee.

“Rick.” Daryl shuddered.

Rick stood up. Picked up his shirt and wiped his hand off on it. Started taking his jeans off, pushing his boxers down. Picked up a fresh condom off the bed, opened it, and started rolling it on. Jesus. 

Jesus.

Rick was gonna fuck him. He was gonna fuck him now, after that. Not even a pause, not even asking, not even telling—just getting straight to it.

Daryl jerked against the bed, but Rick was already climbing on top of him—pushing Daryl’s legs where he wanted—Christ, bending Daryl in _half_. Daryl wanted to struggle, but every part of him felt loose, pliant, and he was tied up anyway. Fuck, Rick could do whatever he wanted—and then he was doing it, sliding in so easy that at first Daryl panicked because he could barely feel him.

Rick was gonna fuck him and Daryl wasn’t even gonna get to really feel it because he was too wet, too wide open; there wasn’t gonna be any friction; he was _dripping_ on Rick’s new bed. “Hold on,” Rick whispered in his ear. “I’ll get you there.”

When Rick started fucking, Daryl couldn’t feel it like he wanted but goddamn, was it good anyway. Rick was fucking him hard, real fast, definitive. Then eventually as the lube got pushed all the way in or more likely, leaked out, Daryl began to feel it better, the slide of Rick into him. It began to burn like Daryl liked and then—

Rick repositioned himself, pulling out enough to get his knees up under Daryl, Daryl’s legs draped over Rick’s thighs. Rick was kneeling, almost—pushing inside of him. Then he reached down there and put his finger in it—

His finger alongside his cock—

Daryl wanted to cry out. He needed to cry out— _please, more, harder—_ Rick had his dick and his finger inside him and it still wasn’t enough, goddamn. Goddamn, Daryl was _such_ a whore; he needed _something—_ “Fuck,” Daryl panted. “Rick.”

Rick fucked him that way, his finger inside of Daryl, his cock lined up against it and Daryl felt so full. He’d never felt so full before. 

“I wanna put in another finger,” Rick said, after the wet, slapping sound of fucking had gone on a minute. “Feel how hot you are inside.”

_Yes oh yes please please please—_ “Don’t,” Daryl moaned, and even he could hear how aching and needy his voice sounded. 

“Say your word.”

“ _No._ Rick.” Daryl’s legs spread for it. “ _Rick_.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Rick leaned down quickly to kiss Daryl’s knee, his thigh, then straightened—almost at a right angle to Daryl’s body, so he could get his hand in and keep fucking him—then Rick put another finger in, and Daryl couldn’t help it.

He made a sound, arching, then arching for it again—hips spasming. 

“That’s right,” said Rick, adjusting inside him. “Lemme hear you.”

Daryl’s junk was just loose, soiled dick and balls flopping around for anyone to see, but Rick’s eyes were glued on Daryl’s face, intense concentration furrowing his brow as he thrust in again. His dick and two fingers—that took coordination, and Rick just kept doing it, fucking him with all three at the same time, and Daryl couldn’t look. 

He couldn’t. Turned away, closed his eyes, and Rick pounded into him again, so good that Daryl moaned. He heard himself do it. God, he sounded like a whore. 

“Yeah,” said Rick. “Like that, tell me.”

Daryl planted his feet on either side of the bed, forcing his weight into his shoulders and legs so he could lift his hips, his body a bow. Without the weight of Daryl’s hips on his thighs Rick could go deeper; Daryl needed him deeper.

“Let me hear you again,” said Rick. “I need to hear how much you want it.”

Fuck. Fuck. Daryl needed to get Rick even deeper inside him; he needed Rick’s come. Daryl wanted the use of his own arms so badly that they were quivering—all of him was quivering, holding himself up like this, arching for Rick, aching for him, needing him—“Rick,” he said, desperately, and Rick came.

Rick’s fingers slid out, scrambling wetly on Daryl’s stomach, his chest, while Rick’s hips lost control, fucking into him again and again. 

There was no way for Daryl to move, other than to relax some of his weight, let go and take what he was given. He just had to take it and take it and he loved it like that, the fact that his arms were tied and his legs were splayed and there was nothing he could do other than take what was given—Rick’s cock, over and over. Rick’s come, even in the condom. 

Goddamn.

Daryl was drooling a little, mouth hanging open from the force of getting fucked that hard, and there wasn’t nothing he could do. Tried to lick it off his chin with his tongue, but his chin was still wet. He couldn’t wipe his face.

Rick’s hips finally slowed, a number of uneven jerks. Then a hand, solid and warm, wrapped around Daryl’s dirty cock.

No.

No.

Oh, fuck.

Rick hadn’t even pulled out. He was softening inside of Daryl’s body, and his hand was slowly starting to jack Daryl’s cock.

“No,” Daryl said. “Fuck.” He threw his head back, straining to get away.

“Say your word,” said Rick.

“ _No_ ,” Daryl said, bucking hard against him.

“Then darlin’,” said Rick, “I’m gonna get you to come for me again.” 

Daryl’s mind was blanking out; he didn’t even know if he wanted it. He’d come so hard; he’d come so, so hard before. Evidence of it was still on Daryl’s cock, but then Rick had fucked him, stretched him so wide—fucked him with his cock inside him and his fingers. Rick was still inside him, slowly going soft. It didn’t seem possible to Daryl that his own cock was this hard again, but it was. It had been ever since Rick had put his finger in; Daryl just hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know what to say.

Maybe there was nothing _to_ say. Rick was already jacking it, murmuring words of encouragement. 

Eventually he pulled his dick out of Daryl’s body, pausing in his manipulation of Daryl’s cock long enough to tie off the condom and drop it over the side with the other. Then he just went back to it—kneeling between Daryl’s legs and working on it.

“You’re so good,” he said.

“Rick,” Daryl heard himself say. 

“So good, letting me touch you all over.”

“Rick. _Rick_.”

“Let me get you off.”

“Yes,” Daryl gasped.

Rick’s hand faltered on Daryl’s cock. “Daryl?”

“Hurry,” said Daryl.

Rick’s hand went back to it, speeding up immediately. “Good,” he rapped out. “That was good; tell me what else.”

“Do it.” Daryl panted. 

“Tell me what else you need,” Rick said sharply. “Do it right now. Daryl, _tell me—_ ”

“Harder,” Daryl said.

“Fuck.” Rick’s other hand gripped Daryl’s balls, jerking hard. “Good, that was good. Tell me what else.”

Daryl twisted, trying to get what he needed, get it to hurt more. If Rick would just tell him he was good some more or pull it harder or say Daryl was doing what Rick wanted—Daryl was almost _there_ if Rick would just _do it—_ “Bite me,” said Daryl.

“Daryl—?”

“Dammit, Rick.” Daryl squirmed in his grasp. “Just fucking bite me.”

“Yeah,” Rick breathed. “Okay.”

Then he was moving down, and for a terrifying moment, Daryl thought Rick was gonna bite his dick. His cock twitched hard at the thought, and then Rick’s teeth were sinking into Daryl’s inner thigh, right up near Daryl’s balls. Rick bit down hard, and Daryl came.

“Keep going,” Rick said, biting again. Daryl’s hips were already pumping erratically, but the sensation of Rick biting down again made Daryl lose even the slightest sense of rhythm. He was gonna keep coming, and then Rick’s teeth were scraping Daryl’s balls and he was already too sensitive. It _hurt_ , and Daryl got come in Rick’s hair. He got it in Rick’s face as Rick came up to watch him.

“Fuck,” Daryl kept saying. “Rick, fuck.”

“Yeah,” said Rick, rubbing the spot on Daryl’s thigh he’d bitten. “You’re doing so good, baby; keep going.”

“ _Stop_ it,” Daryl said, still spasming. His cock was dry now and he couldn’t stop; God, he needed to stop. His wrists chafed at the bonds as he yanked. “Get me down,” he said, when the last spasm had jerked through him. 

“No.” Rick stood up.

“Rick.” Daryl pulled hard on the bonds. 

Rick moved away, and for the first time, fear sluiced through Daryl, hard. Rick was gonna leave him there. Before, the thought had seemed hot, but that was before Rick had used his fingers on him—his fingers and his mouth and his dick and everything. Rick had used everything on him, gone to town on him completely, and now Daryl needed to—he didn’t know. He needed to _not be tied up—_

When Rick came back, he had a damp towel. Daryl flinched when it touched his skin, but Rick just proceeded to clean him—clean Daryl’s cock, wipe down the come from his stomach. He cleaned all that carefully, then put the towel between Daryl’s legs and wiped his ass, which made Daryl desperately try to close his legs. “Rick,” he said, confused and humiliated.

Rick must’ve wiped his own face off in the bathroom, because most the come was gone. There was still some in his hair. 

Prying Daryl’s legs open, Rick wiped him with the towel, pushing the rough cloth against Daryl’s crack, his hole. Rick did it tenderly, with care. Like something nice that’d got mussed, not something that was filthy regardless what you did with it. “I loved getting to touch this,” Rick said, swiping the towel once more over Daryl’s hole. “It’s so hot. You were so hot with my fingers inside you.”

Daryl couldn’t breathe.

Rick moved the towel away, dropped it on the floor—which had to be getting foul at this point—and finally reached up to untie the bonds. When at last Daryl’s arms were down and he could sit up, Rick started untying Daryl’s wrists, pulling Daryl’s shirt back down onto Daryl’s arms so Rick could see the bonds. 

Daryl didn’t know what he was gonna do when Rick got them off. He wanted—fuck, he wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted.

Then Rick got them untied, but Daryl couldn’t take his arms all the way apart because his shirt was still turned inside out on his wrists. Yanking one hand out, then the other, Daryl grabbed Rick. He wanted to—God, Daryl was kissing him. He didn’t know why.

Daryl was kissing him frantically, sloppily, mashing his mouth up against Rick’s so neither of them could breathe and then pushing his tongue in. God, he wanted—he felt like he was gonna—Jesus, he was a fucking sissy; he just wanted to be closer. He wanted to be so close up against Rick that he could disappear completely; Rick would just contain him, somehow. Daryl wanted Rick to be his skeleton, hold him close like his own flesh, never let him go.

Finally getting with the program, Rick’s hands came up to Daryl’s face, and then Rick was kissing him back—deeply and with far more control. His hand slid to Daryl’s neck, his shoulder, his—

Daryl jerked away, realizing Rick was gonna touch his bare back. Grabbing his shirt, Daryl struggled into it. While he was at it, he realized he had no pants. Rick had taken his pants.

“Daryl,” said Rick.

Daryl needed his pants.

He couldn’t breathe.

He needed his pants; he needed to get out; he’d just remembered he couldn’t _breathe_.

Scrambling off the bed, Daryl found them on the floor. Yanked them on, forgetting the underwear, and Jesus, he needed—

He needed to get as far away as possible.

“Daryl,” Rick said again, as Daryl lurched out the door.

Daryl remembered running away from the courtroom after Jake had testified. Someone had called his name and he had kept on going, unable to stop. All his secrets lay behind him.

He needed to get away.

The hallway led down to the living-room, which connected to the dining-room. Between the two stood the door to the outside, beyond it the concrete stoop. Daryl stepped onto it, the concrete shockingly cold. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Beyond the stoop grew grass, cool and bending underfoot. Daryl didn’t know where he was going. His chest hurt; he couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t catch his breath. He needed a cigarette.

The cool air brushed against his skin and he needed more of it. He just needed to feel more of it, see the dark emptiness of the night sky. 

Pacing away from Rick’s apartment, past the grass, Daryl stepped into the parking lot, sharp gravel bits biting into his flesh, smooth parts almost soft. Daryl couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t breathe. He needed a cigarette.

There probably was one in his truck.

There had to be one in his truck. He was trying to stop smoking, but he used to stash them away in there. There had to be one in there—there could be a whole pack in there. Shoving his hand into his pocket, Daryl found his keys. Clutched them in his hand just to feel the metal in his hand. He had to find a cigarette.

Unlocking the truck, Daryl slid onto the leather seat. Solid and familiar, cool in the night. Pulled the door closed because it was chilly, put his hands on the steering wheel and—he could leave. He could just leave. Drive away. Never come back, ever again.

Rick.

Daryl had left him. He’d just _left_ him without saying nothing, when Rick had done all that. When Rick had tied him up and touched him that way and said those things, when Rick had touched him all the way from the inside out, when Rick had—

_I loved getting to touch this._

Trembling, Daryl began searching the truck. He just needed a cigarette. He just needed a fucking cigarette, then he could think. Then he could breathe, then he could calm down, then he could decide what to do. He just needed to fucking _find_ one. There had to be one here somewhere, but Daryl didn’t find one in the glove compartment, even though he tore it apart. Couldn’t find one in the visors, even though he flipped them and scratched at them. There wasn’t a cigarette in the well of the driver’s side door, even though Daryl got out of the truck, moved the seat and felt under it.

He hadn’t forgotten a pack in here. There weren’t any in here.

Jesus, _Rick_.

Daryl climbed back into the driver’s seat, shivering, hands clutching the wheel. He could just—just drive somewhere. Go out, find the nearest gas station, buy the cigarettes. 

Or he could go to a liquor store.

He could buy whiskey. A small one. Just a small one, drink it, buy a pack of cigarettes, smoke one, and then he’d be calm. He’d be calm and then he’d come right back. 

He’d come right back.

Daryl knew it wasn’t gonna go that way. 

He was gonna go to that liquor store and keep right on driving. Drive off forever, so he’d never have to think about anything ever again.

Daryl got his keys out. Looked at them a while, then slowly, slid the key into the ignition—but he couldn’t go. Because Rick. 

He couldn’t stay. Because Rick. 

He couldn’t do anything, because Rick. Daryl was unable to decide. He just sat there with his hand on the key in the ignition, frozen.

God, the way Rick had touched him. Rick was a fucking prince. He was fucking everything, everything important, and Daryl was—hell. He was a fuckup. He was everything wrong with this whole fucking world, this whole fucking system; he didn’t fit in it, with nice people and their nice things. 

He didn’t even fucking want to fit in it. He didn’t even _like_ it, people and their niceties, the way people were always saying things they didn’t mean and doing things for pointless reasons. All these stupid rules and laws and regulations screwed over almost everyone and yet people deemed them good and right and _necessary_ because _society_ ; what was that? It was pointless; he wasn’t made for it. He wasn’t good at it. He was outside of it, and here was Rick, trotting on up with his _you’re good, you’re worth it, you’re special_ , but Daryl wasn’t special. He wasn’t Cinder-fucking-rella; he was a redneck fag who was gonna throw glass slippers down the fucking drain for a fucking cigarette.

His shoes were in Rick’s room. 

Daryl hated everyone. He wasn’t good at anything; he wasn’t useful to anyone. What was the goddamn point of it all, if there was a point; there was no point. No point to Pop or to Mom, no point to Merle or Rick. Or Carol.

Or Sophia.

There could be cigarettes in the well of the passenger door. 

He hadn’t checked there, yet. 

Merle used to drive the truck all the time, Daryl shotgun. He could’ve put a pack there back then. If there was a pack there—then he could stay. He wouldn’t have to leave. He could smoke a cigarette, decide what to do, stay here. But if there wasn’t a cigarette in the passenger door—then he had to leave.

Daryl’s hands tightened around the plastic of the wheel. He didn’t want to check. 

What if there wasn’t one there? 

Lunging over to the passenger side, Daryl shoved his hand into the well, feeling trash—a CD, a wadded up fast food bag, a plastic spoon, a lighter, three nickels, two lottery tickets, eight receipts. Daryl took everything out and threw it on the floor, feeling in the well again—a cigarette might’ve slipped out of its pack. Come on, he used to keep a pack in here. A cigarette had to have slipped out; he had to find one. He had to find one so he could stay.

Getting out of the truck, Daryl went around to the passenger side, moved the seat, pulled everything he could find out from under it—a girl’s hair barrette, more receipts, used napkins, a straw, dead leaves, come _on—_ a cigarette.

Oh, thank Jesus.

Jesus. 

It was crumpled, kinda dirty, but it was a cigarette, and Daryl’s hands shook as he picked it up. Put it in his mouth, got the lighter. Five tries, then he got it lit. Goddamn motherfucking shit.

Daryl was still standing outside the passenger side, the door hanging open, half the trash he’d found in the well and under the seat strewn on the pavement around him. Sinking down into the trash, Daryl sat in the parking lot, leaning against the truck on the open passenger side.

Goddamn. 

Fuck. What kinda person made a deal with himself like that, a deal where your whole life hinges on a cigarette; he was crazy. Imagine having a panic attack over not being able to find a stupid cigarette. Someone should commit him. He was a fuckup. He was so fucked up.

Scooting away from the truck, Daryl swung the passenger door closed, then scooted back so he’d have something to lean against. Something to thump his head against.

The nicotine entered his system like a soothing hand on his shoulder, a voice in his veins saying _shh_ , a cool liquid cleaning his brain, making it sharp, clear. The tightness in his chest eased and he could breathe. In, out. In, out. Big, full breath in, hold, hold, hold. Long one out through the mouth.

Big breath in, hold hold hold, long one out through the mouth.

Mingled with the taste of smoke, the air tasted brisker. With the warmth of it, the breeze felt cooler. Against the white hazy swim of it, the night looked blacker, more beautiful. Daryl’s nose burned, his eyes stinging slightly. God, it felt so good.

The moon was waning, a sliver like a fingernail, silver in the sky. The stars were not as clear as they were in the country, but Daryl could see Orion chasing chasing the Sisters, the Bull between them. In Cherokee myth, the Pleiades were boys. Seven brothers who loved to play and didn’t want to get in trouble, so they danced. Danced and danced until they lifted, dancing, right into the sky. 

Daryl puffed smoke into the air, watching it swirl into the black. 

The brothers hadn’t wanted to do what their ma told them. They were mad at her for taking them to task. They wanted to go somewhere where they’d never be found.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, and Daryl stood, opening the passenger door. He picked up the trash piece by piece, put it all back in. Leaned across the seat, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and pulled the key out of the ignition. Straightened up, pulled back, closed the door, locked it. Went around to the other side, locked that too.

Took the cigarette out, stubbed it carefully on the hood of the truck. Slipped the stub in his pocket, then turned back toward Rick’s apartment.

Time to face the music.


	13. Chapter 13

The door was open a crack. Daryl didn’t know whether he’d left it that way. He’d been in a panic when he left, but he weren’t panicked now. Still, he hesitated before pushing the door the rest of the way open and going inside.

He wasn’t sure he could handle it if Rick was just sitting naked on the bed, shoulders curled in, staring at nothing. That sight would hurt so bad that Daryl would probably turn on his heel and leave again, which wasn’t fair to Rick. Then again, when had he ever been fair to Rick?

Taking a deep breath, Daryl pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Rick was standing shirtless by the dining table, bottle of whiskey on it, two glasses beside it. One of the glasses was full, and Rick was filling the other one. “Here,” said Rick, when he was done pouring. He pushed the glass across the table. 

Pulling the door shut behind him, Daryl looked at the drink warily. Looked at Rick, who paid him no mind. Looked back at the drink. Then in two long strides, Daryl crossed to the table, picked up the glass, and downed the liquor in one go.

Soon as the glass was back on the table, Rick was filling it. 

“Come on,” said Rick. Picking up his own glass, Rick walked over to the living-room.

Daryl followed, bringing the refilled glass with him.

Rick sat down, looked up at him. “Sit down.”

 _I ain’t your call boy,_ Daryl had told him the other day, but he was so shaken by everything that he barely paused. Went and did as Rick told him, sitting on the other end of the couch.

“Relax.” Rick picked up the remote. Turned on the TV.

Basketball.

Fucking basketball.

They were gonna sit here and watch basketball, after Rick had put his fingers in him and sucked him off and fucked him, made him come twice, and Daryl had run out the door and had a breakdown over a fucking cigarette. Basketball. That was what they were doing.

Daryl watched the figures on the screen uncomprehendingly. He didn’t give a fuck about basketball, and Rick knew it. They’d talked about it more than once, Rick always seeming surprised Daryl didn’t care about sports. Daryl had never understood why he should be interested. In the end, it was just a bunch of dumb fucks running around with balls.

Rick just sat there, watching the TV, sipping his whiskey.

Daryl knocked back his own whiskey, set the glass on the floor, then faced the television.

They did that for five minutes, Daryl sitting stiffly, trying to hold still, because fidgeting was a sign of anxiety and Rick had said relax. Finally, Rick sighed, turned the volume down. Set his whiskey on the table. “Do you wanna suck me?” he said.

Shocked, Daryl looked at him.

Rick didn’t look like he was joking. He spread his legs wider.

Daryl’s heart started going rabbit fast. His mouth was already watering.

“Come on,” said Rick, and Daryl scrambled off the couch. 

Getting on his knees between Rick’s legs, Daryl hesitated at the zipper on Rick’s jeans. The button was already undone, but Daryl didn’t know how they could they be doing it this way after the way they’d done it before—the intimacy of that versus the casualness of this. The TV was still on.

“Yeah,” said Rick, lifting his hips so the zipper brushed Daryl’s hand.

Fuck. Yanking the zipper down, Daryl tugged on Rick’s jeans. Rick wasn’t wearing any underwear and he wasn’t hard, but it didn’t matter. Rick had _asked_ for it, and Daryl took Rick’s cock without any foreplay, teasing, hesitation. Daryl just opened his mouth and took it, then immediately tried to get more of it.

It was comforting. Having Rick’s cock in his mouth, even soft. Daryl felt good doing it, and all the anxiety and uncertainty and tumult of the past hour just . . . faded away.

Oh God. He loved it. Daryl closed his eyes.

He just loved it; he was good at it. He was really good at it, and Rick was starting to feel good because of it; Daryl could tell. His cock was hardening as Daryl sucked. As Daryl kept sucking, Rick’s hips lifted, nudging cock deeper into Daryl’s mouth. And then Rick’s hand fumbled for the remote, pressed something on it. The light went dim—he had to have turned it off. Rick must want to concentrate on how good it felt, on how good Daryl was being for him and God, how had Rick known?

How could Rick know this was exactly what Daryl wanted? After everything. Especially after everything, Daryl needed this.

Rick’s hand slid into Daryl’s hair, gentle fingers against Daryl’s scalp. Daryl could only hear the wet, nasty sounds of himself sucking, but it was okay Rick wasn’t saying anything, because Rick was getting to enjoy it. Getting to lean back with his legs open and just feel it, Rick’s fingers sliding over and over again in Daryl’s hair, sifting through it. Sliding softly on Daryl’s scalp, stroking it.

Daryl came off Rick’s cock just so he could hear the filthy sound of all that spit and pre-come, taste it as he slurped it up. He wanted to feel how nasty he was, swirling his tongue around the head, how good he could make Rick feel. Opening his eyes, Daryl looked up at Rick just to see.

Rick was just looking at him. “Good boy,” he said.

Daryl heard himself make this pathetic sound, a soft little mewl, and then his mouth was back on Rick’s cock, drooling. He needed it. He needed his mouth full of cock; he needed it down his throat. When he finally swallowed it down It felt so good that his eyes rolled back in his skull, good boy.

Good boy.

Good boy.

This was good. God, Daryl was being so good.

Rick’s hand slid from Daryl’s hair, down around his neck, to the side of Daryl’s throat. The back of Rick’s knuckles stroked from Daryl’s jaw down to his adam’s apple—then again. And again.

Rick was feeling his own cock in Daryl’s throat.

Whimpering, Daryl came back up, slid back down, wanting Rick to feel it moving, to feel the slide of it inside and outside of Daryl’s neck.

“All right,” said Rick, as though in answer to a plea. “Yeah.” Rick’s fingers swept back to Daryl’s nape, Daryl’s hair. Rick’s hand twisted, gripping hard. Then he pulled Daryl off, and Daryl swallowed, finally relaxing his throat. And then Rick pulled him back down.

Yes. Fuck, _yes_ , Rick was pushing him down on his cock, and Daryl struggled to breathe through his nose. Rick was gonna fuck his face.

Yes. 

yes yes _yes_

It was slow at first, Rick’s hips lifting for Daryl’s mouth as Rick pushed Daryl’s head down. Rick’s fist loosened and his hips settled back down. Then again, they went up, the fist pulled Daryl’s head in—slowly. Languid. _Lazy._ As though Rick were fucking just to fuck, not even because he really needed to.

Daryl wanted it to go on forever. His throat was already raw, sore. He wasn’t gonna be able to talk, and the thought made him feel so good that he moaned.

Gradually, Rick sped up. Daryl kept moaning, losing patience because Rick still wasn’t fucking hard enough. God, he wanted Rick’s come; he wanted it; he needed it; he was so nasty. He was so nasty he wanted to get full of it. 

The blowjob was becoming uncoordinated, messy. Daryl was getting slobber all over Rick’s nice cock and he almost didn’t care.

“Yeah,” said Rick. His other hand came up—grabbing Daryl’s face, holding it there to fuck, finally fucking hard and yes, yes. Daryl kept his mouth open and tried to tip his head back so he could get it all the way down his throat and Rick wasn’t even looking at him now. Rick’s head was thrown back, back arching to push his hips into Daryl’s face, and when Rick came he didn’t warn him, didn’t even try to pull Daryl off. 

Rick pushed him down onto his cock instead, making Daryl take it, and somehow this made everything okay. It was okay Rick had tied him up and done those things if Rick got to use him this way. Daryl could feel the come pumping down his throat and reveled in it; he liked it so much. Christ, he liked Rick so much.

When Rick was finally done, he didn’t even pull out. Just left it in there, slowly softening. Daryl wanted to hold it in his mouth forever, but he needed to breathe, needed to swallow without something in the way. Eventually he pulled himself off of it—a slow, wet, disgusting slurp. He lapped at the head when it popped out of his mouth, just to make sure he got all the dirty slime. It was obscene. He loved it.

Hand still in Daryl’s hair, Rick started gently stroking Daryl’s scalp again. Not particularly wanting to move, Daryl let him do it, his head heavy. As if sensing that weight, Rick coaxed Daryl’s head down onto his thigh, and let Daryl stay there. Just kneeling there, head resting on Rick’s leg, Rick’s hand petting his hair. Like a dog. Like Daryl was a dog at Rick’s feet, and Daryl wanted to stay there forever. He wanted to be told to stay and heel and good boy; he needed it.

Fuck, he was pathetic. He liked it so much.

Rick’s hand kept moving in his hair.

Daryl risked a careful glance up, keeping his head where Rick had rested it on his thigh. Rick looked like something from a dirty magazine—legs splayed wide, pants open to reveal hair, his soft cock. Shirtless, relaxed, Rick’s upper body sprawled comfortably against the sofa. Rick’s head was thrown back, exposing his adam’s apple. 

Daryl wondered what would happen if he just stayed here. Stayed here on his knees between Rick’s legs, his head on Rick’s lap. He was so ashamed. It was the most comfortable Daryl had ever felt.

Eventually, Rick brought his head up. Opened his eyes. His hand tightened in Daryl’s hair. “Stay with me,” he said.

Daryl tried not to breathe too hard.

Rick’s hands began threading through Daryl’s hair again. “Stay the night with me,” said Rick.

Daryl looked up at him, mostly just to feel himself looking up. Feel himself being on the floor, Rick above him, telling him what to do.

“You can use my toothbrush,” Rick said.

Daryl tried to nod, his face mostly just rubbing against Rick’s thigh. He didn’t wanna move.

“Come on,” said Rick, pushing Daryl away a bit so he could stand, head off to the bedroom.

Daryl followed.

*

When Daryl opened his eyes, he had to take a moment before he could recognize his surroundings. He was in bed. Rick’s bed. Rick’s big new bed with its wood headboard and footboard, which he’d bought so he could tie Daryl up. And finger him.

In the corner was the rocking chair Daryl had seen last night. _I was furniture shopping anyway,_ Rick had said. Could you tie people to rocking chairs to fuck them? Daryl didn’t know anything about that sorta thing.

Rick weren’t there to ask.

Sun streamed in through the window. Rick may have gotten a rocking chair, but he didn’t even have curtains. Daryl stood to put on his jeans.

*

In the kitchen, Rick was making coffee.

Daryl had thought about putting on his shoes and trying to sneak out the front door, but he was glad he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have gotten to see Rick in his stupid threadbare boxers puttering around the kitchen if he’d’ve slunk away, and besides—Daryl might be a sissy, but he weren’t a coward. Leaning against the open frame that connected the dining-room into the kitchen, he watched as Rick shuffled through the coffee filters.

Rick’s back was smooth and beautiful, his calves too skinny, his bare feet strangely endearing. Watching him was like some kinda softcore porn commercial made for housewives.

“Hey,” Rick said, smiling when he saw him there.

Daryl felt his face heat up.

“You don’t like coffee, right?”

“It’s all right,” Daryl said.

“I’ve never seen you get any.”

Daryl chewed on his lower lip.

“I’ll make more,” said Rick.

Daryl thought about protesting, but this meant he’d get to watch Rick do all those coffee things again—put the water in the measuring cup, pour it in the machine, measure out the grounds. Fuck. Daryl had it real bad. “It was always afternoon,” Daryl said finally. “When we were at Starbucks.”

Rick glanced over his shoulder at him, then turned back to the grounds. “Could’ve had it in the morning that time we went camping,” he said. “But you made fun of me for bringing stuff.”

Daryl wanted to say sorry, but knew Rick was teasing. He didn’t like it when Daryl apologized.

“You want breakfast?” Rick said, after he got the coffee started again. Going over to a cupboard, he opened it up. “I got . . . Lucky Charms.”

Peeling off the wall, Daryl came to look into the cupboard. After a moment of staring at the mostly empty shelves, his eyes slid over to Rick.

“They’re Carl’s,” Rick said.

Daryl kept looking at him, eyes narrowed.

Rick just shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly.

Daryl turned away. “You got eggs?” he said, already going to the refrigerator. “Man, you got anything?” he said, when he looked inside. “No wonder you’re so skinny.”

“Sorry we’re not all big and beefy, like you.”

“When you’d get these?” Daryl said, grabbing the eggs and sniffing them. “Last year?”

“Last year was only a month and a half ago.”

Daryl frowned at him.

Rick shrugged. “Sometimes I boil them.”

Grunting to show his disgust, Daryl grabbed some bread, cheese, and mayonnaise also. He looked up from the refrigerator. “You don’t got butter?”

“Sorry.” For some reason, Rick was smiling. 

Daryl glared at him. Nudging the fridge closed with his foot, he brought the food over to the stove and set them down. Then he began searching through the cupboards. 

“What’re you looking for?” Rick asked finally.

“Signs of life.” Daryl had found a fry pan and canola oil, brought them over to the stove.

“We eat out a lot,” Rick said. “Carl and me, I mean.”

“Yeah, you ever eat when he’s not here?”

For a minute Rick didn’t say anything, just watching him. “Cottage cheese,” he said finally. “Lima beans.”

Daryl didn’t dignify that with an answer, pouring some of the oil in the pan, turning on the heat. Tore the cheese slices into strips, took out four slices of bread.

“I never really cooked,” Rick added.

“Maybe you should start.”

“Want me to take a class?”

Daryl grunted again, cracking the eggs into the pan.

“Maybe you could teach me,” Rick said.

“Jesus, Rick. I ain’t gourmet.”

“I don’t want gourmet.”

Daryl stole a glance at him. Rick’s lips were pursed but there was this smile under it, like he was trying to contain it, eyes bright like he thought the whole thing was funny. 

It weren’t funny. It was sad, was what it was, and it kinda pissed Daryl off that Rick had no butter. That he didn’t think taking care of himself was important, that he had fucking cottage cheese and lima beans for dinner and didn’t think maybe he should just learn to make a fucking pasta. Like it’d kill Rick to eat good once in a while, have a nice meal, just because his wife weren’t cooking for him no more. Jesus. Daryl had never had anyone to cook for him; he at least had stuff to make fucking scrambled eggs.

“What’s the mayonnaise for?” Rick asked.

“Sandwich.” Daryl looked around. “Man, you even got any salt and pepper?”

Rick went over to a cupboard Daryl had missed. Got two shakers out, brought them over to the stove, where Daryl was standing, tending the eggs. Rick set the shakers down, then slid his hand along Daryl’s lower back. Rick leaned in, kissed Daryl’s ear, then turned him around, backed him into the cupboards beside the stove. Kissed him more deeply on the mouth.

Daryl pulled away, profoundly embarrassed for reasons he could not explain. “I got—eggs,” he mumbled. 

Rick let him go, getting the coffee and pouring it into mugs, fetching plates and napkins.

They had breakfast at the table, grilled sandwiches with scrambled egg in them, cheese melting into the mayo. The sandwiches were pretty good, even if Rick didn’t have butter, and the coffee wasn’t that bad.

“I’ve got a lot of errands today,” Rick said, after he’d devoured the whole thing and there were nothing but crumbs on his plate.

“I can go,” Daryl said quickly.

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Rick looked tired, like he hadn’t slept well at all. Maybe Daryl had kept him up, only he hazily remembered waking up several times in the night and Rick had already been awake each time, telling him to sleep again.

Daryl still couldn’t quite wrap his brain around what had happened last night—Rick tying him up so he could put his fingers in him, suck him off. Daryl wanted to ask about it but didn’t know what to say. _Why would you do that?_ just seemed so fucking clueless.

“I get to have Judith next weekend,” Rick said. “I gotta build the crib and get her diapers, that sorta stuff. I don’t know how long it’s gonna take. Everything’s gotta be ready for her.”

“You gotta build a crib?”

“Just put it together,” said Rick.

Furniture shopping. Rick had bought a crib and a rocking chair for his baby. And a big old bed for Daryl.

“It might not take that long,” said Rick. “I could call you. After I’m done. You could come back over.”

“I could help you,” Daryl blurted.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

Daryl bit his lip.

Rick’s head tilted. “Do you want to?”

“I ain’t bad. At building things,” Daryl clarified.

“Yeah.” Rick looked him over. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably. “I ain’t Bob Vila.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Man,” said Daryl, because Rick was looking at him like he was a pound of beef. “Stop.”

Rick did that thing where he pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and dragged his teeth against it, slowly, before letting it pop back out again. “Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“I don’t know!”

“Yeah.” It was that resigned _yeah_ , the one he used when he didn’t agree with what you were saying but didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Well, good. Daryl didn’t want to talk about it either. He didn’t know what the hell they were talking about anyway.

Rick grabbed the plates, his mug, walked them over to the kitchen. By the time Daryl got there, Rick was washing off the plates. Something about it made him look vulnerable—Rick in his boxers, washing the plates in his kitchen where he didn’t eat. In his apartment where he barely lived. Where his little baby girl was coming over and he had to build a crib for her. Rick made Daryl’s heart hurt and he wanted to apologize; he didn’t know what for.

“The crib was gonna take the longest,” Rick said, drying off the plates with a towel. “I can do the rest of the errands during the week, so why don’t you just stay? You wanna shower?”

Daryl wanted to rub his skin off. He didn’t have clean clothes. “You got tools?”

“What?” Rick turned around.

“For the crib. You need a drill?” Daryl was thinking of all that stuff from the Subaru, the way Rick didn’t even have a toaster. He had a coffee maker, though. That was okay.

“I don’t think you need a drill,” said Rick.

“You got one?”

“It’s at my—” Rick cut himself off, confirming Daryl’s suspicions. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t have a drill.”

“I gotta go back to my place anyway,” said Daryl.

Rick folded the towel. Set it on the counter. “Yeah.”

Christ. Rick looked . . . he didn’t look sad about it. That wasn’t it. He just looked—he just looked so _lonely_ , there with his stupid towel. Christ.

“I’ll be back,” Daryl said gruffly, feeling like he was in some kinda Lifetime movie.

“Yeah.” Rick turned away.

Goddamn. Christ. Goddammit.

Daryl felt himself walk across the kitchen without quite thinking about it, then he was touching Rick—just a light hand on Rick’s shoulder, and Rick turned around. Daryl hesitated, feeling like such an ass, then leaned in, lips quickly brushing Rick’s cheek.

Rick looked so surprised and—well, just goddammed _pleased_ that Daryl did it again, lips brushing Rick’s mouth this time, slipping him tongue—just a little, then pulling away.

Rick licked his lips. His blue, blue eyes were mostly pupil, dark and hot.

Yeah. That. That was perfect. Daryl felt the corner of his mouth flick up. “Bye,” he said, turning away.

He could feel Rick staring at him as he left the kitchen, to the dining room, and out the front door.

*

After taking a shower, Daryl banged around the trailer, got dressed, got tools together—toolbox, drill, level—trying not to think about the night before, what had happened, how Rick had touched him, what Rick had said.

_I loved getting to touch this._

Rick was really queer.

Daryl thought maybe he should bring a hacksaw, just in case. He didn’t remember where it was. The shed out back? Closet? The drawers under the TV? Daryl was slowly tearing the trailer apart.

Rick had put his fingers in it. _I wanna finger you all night long_ , he’d said. _It’s tight,_ he’d said. _I got it wet,_ he’d said, and Daryl had let him do it. He’d let Rick finger him, Rick’s hand touching inside of him, stretching his ass, pressing against that secret spot and Daryl had let him. He’d let him.

He could’ve said eclipse.

 _Your word_ , Rick had called it. A word that belonged only to him. Daryl could’ve said it and everything would’ve stopped. 

Eclipse.

Daryl had known how to get what he wanted out of Jake. He’d egged Jake on so Jake would use him as hard as possible, then complained it still wasn’t hard enough just so he could get it harder. Daryl had liked it, being able to make Jake do what Daryl wanted.

But Daryl had never been able to get what he wanted so simply, easily—like he was in control. Like he was in complete control and could have anything he wanted—Rick _fingering_ him—

Eclipse.

Just the thought of the word got Daryl hot, which was about as wrong as you could get.

A safeword was something you used to say no. It shouldn’t get him hot at all; it should feel good and safe. Like the opposite of hot, and instead Daryl kept thinking he could do anything he wanted. He could make Rick do anything he wanted; they could fuck all kinds of ways—maybe Daryl could even fuck him because—eclipse.

Eclipse eclipse eclipse.

Maybe he should find the sander too.

When Daryl looked around, he realized he had taken all the drawers out of the dresser in his room. 

He wasn’t looking for the hacksaw. Or the sander, or even the goddamn level. He was looking for cigarettes, and he might as well admit it, because right now it was either suck on a cancer stick or think about last night, all those things last night—Rick’s fingers in him, Rick’s mouth on him, Rick so obviously enjoying it, Rick possibly wanting to get fucked by him, eclipse.

Goddamn, did Daryl need another cigarette; there was no point in pretending he hadn’t fallen off the wagon and he _needed_ it right now. He needed it; it was either cancer or a stiff drink and Daryl couldn’t have a drink because he had to go back. He had to go back to Rick and if he started drinking he might not stop. Daryl knew himself well enough to know that; he had to be sober. He couldn’t have a drink.

Cancer it was.

There could be cigarettes in here somewhere. Daryl could’ve hid them from himself. He wouldn’t really put it past himself to have forgotten about them; he could never remember anything important anyway. Merle might have some in his room. 

Daryl tore Merle’s room apart.

There weren’t any. Just an ounce of coke in Merle’s sock drawer, which was just so typical. God, fucking Merle. 

Slamming the sock drawer shut, Daryl kept on looking, but he knew he wasn’t gonna find anything. He’d already ransacked Merle’s room the day after he’d set his own bed on fire and there weren’t nothing here except that coke.

That coke.

There was only a little. 

A little didn’t make you high or nothing. Just—easier. It made things easier.

Daryl got out of the trailer, leaving the sander behind. He wasn’t even thinking about where he was going. He just needed to get away from the trailer. Away from Merle’s room. Away from the coke.

When he found himself pulling into a gas station, he was pissed at himself for having driven there. He didn’t need to go there; he was on his way to Rick’s—but he was already getting out of the truck. Slamming the door. Walking toward the glass doors, the smell of gasoline permeating everything, and Daryl told himself it was just gonna be this one time.

Just this one time.

Daryl knew it wasn’t gonna be the last time. 

He knew it when he bought the cigarettes, knew it when he tore open the pack after he got back to the truck, knew it when he slipped the cigarette into his mouth. It wasn’t gonna be the last time, but he still kept telling himself _just this once_.

Just this once.

Lighting the cigarette, Daryl took a deep draw, and everything felt better.

Finally, he could think. The singing along his veins warmed him, calmed him. The settling in his head soothed him, silenced him. That biting scent cut through all the bullshit, sharp and so clear; he could finally think straight. Nothing else could’ve done that for him—not coke or liquor or Rick.

Rick. 

Cigarette dangling out of his mouth, Daryl flicked the shift up into reverse and slowly backed out of the gas station parking lot. Jerked the shift into drive, then got out of the lot and into the road. 

With the cigarette, Daryl felt steady, in control. He knew what to do; he was glad he’d done it. And maybe he could really quit smoking after this.

Maybe he really would.

*

Back at the trailer, Daryl got the coke out of Merle’s sock drawer, brought it to the bathroom. Opened the toilet, poured the coke in, pressed the flush. He could barely even see the powder, swirling in with the water beneath the haze of the cigarette in his mouth, but at least the coke was gone.

Sitting at the table with a plate for the ash of his second cigarette, Daryl called Carol. “Hello, Daryl,” she said. “We still seeing you at two?”

“No. I ain’t—I ain’t coming.” 

There was a pause.

Daryl tapped his cigarette.

“Why not?”

Daryl wanted to tell her, _I didn’t do any coke_ , but she wouldn’t get it. She wouldn’t get why he was even tempted to snort any coke, why he even had any coke. If he’d’ve told her the coke was Merle’s she’d’ve probably gone off. 

Carol didn’t much like Merle. She thought he was no good—which was true, but she’d never met him. She didn’t really know. She shouldn’t talk about things she didn’t know about, even though she was trying to help. Carol was always trying to help, because she loved him. She thought he was so great. 

He couldn’t tell her about the coke.

It wasn’t an excuse anyway.

“You didn’t come last weekend,” Carol said finally. “Daryl, what’s going on?”

The cigarette Daryl was holding had burned down to the filter. Daryl lit up another one with the lit one still in his mouth.

“Daryl,” Carol said.

“Rick,” Daryl said, smashing out the old cigarette and picking up the new for a draw. He could say it was Rick. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Rick.” The way Carol repeated it made Daryl remember she knew about Rick. She’d figured it out that day at the shooting range— _he’s as straight as the day is long—_ and they hadn’t talked about it since.

Daryl exhaled a long stream of smoke.

“What’s Rick got to do with it?” Carol asked.

Daryl took another draw to reassure himself. “He needed help with something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know how to ride horses,” said Daryl, because the reason he’d called was he was supposed to go to the Greene farm today and do that horseback riding with Beth and Sophia.

“That’s not the point.”

“Sophia’s got Beth. She’s got . . .” Daryl waved his hand, smoke wafting out lazily from it, and that brought the cigarette too far away. Hastily, Daryl brought it to his mouth, sucking in the comfort of it. “She’s got Hershel and Annette, Michonne, all those folks.”

“She needs you,” said Carol.

“What, so she can learn to shoot a bow and arrow?”

“You know that’s not why.”

Daryl tapped his cigarette on the plate. He’d thrown all the ashtrays away, and the plate was too big for this, sprinkled all over with ash. It was one of them flower plates he got at the Goodwill, back when he’d first started thinking he could have Carol to visit, and he could take care of them. 

Carol sighed noisily. “What’re you doing with Rick?”

“Said I’d help him make a crib.”

“A crib?”

“For his girl.” Thinking a lady like Carol and her teenage daughter could stay here had been pretty dumb; Daryl could see that now. They’d slept in a room where there was coke in the sock drawer, and even if it was gone now Daryl hated that it had been there at all. 

He wanted to start another cigarette and this one wasn’t even half done.

“That’s nice of you to help,” Carol said finally. 

“He doesn’t got no one,” Daryl said in a rush. Carol and Sophia all had someones now; they didn’t need him, but Rick’s furniture was shit. And he didn’t eat good. And he didn’t have no one to touch him, and for some reason he wanted Daryl to do it.

“I’m glad you two are friends,” Carol said finally. 

“Yeah.” Ash dropped from the cigarette onto the plate.

“Just a minute,” said Carol.

Daryl waited. Silence over the phone, then some muffled talking. After another moment—“Daryl?”

Shit.

“Daryl, are you there?”

“Hey,” Daryl said, after another moment, dragging hard on his cigarette after the words were out.

“When’re you coming over?” Sophia asked.

Christ. 

“Daryl?”

“I ain’t coming.”

Silence.

Bullshit. This was such a bullshit. “You got Beth,” he said, angrier than he meant to sound.

“Okay.” Sophia’s voice sounded dull.

Fuck. Goddammit, Carol, why’d she make him do this, like he was doing something bad; he couldn’t do everything—ride horses and make cribs and talk on the phone, hold down a fucking job, keep the trailer nice, shop for groceries, quit drinking, quit drugs. Quit smoking. 

Goddammit. The cigarette didn’t feel like enough. He wanted another fifty.

“Maybe you can come another time?”

Daryl hesitated.

 _You don’t need me,_ he wanted to say. _You don’t need me and I can’t keep up with this; I’m not as good as you think I am; I went on a bender Thursday; I’m smoking a cigarette; I almost snorted Merle’s coke,_ but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, because she loved him. Sophia loved him; she believed in him, and Carol did too.

And so did Rick.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, all of this was gonna fall apart. Daryl was going to fail, but it wasn’t going to be today. And it weren’t going to be from lack of trying.

“Daryl?” said Sophia.

“Yeah, baby,” Daryl said, smashing out his cigarette. “Yeah. Another time.”

And, because nothing could ever be easy; because when you had to put your money where your mouth was, Sophia’s voice got all bright and said, “When?”

Daryl swallowed hard. “How about tomorrow night?”

A pause. “I got homework.”

Daryl bit his lip. “You have homework.” Sophia didn’t say anything, so he added, “You say, ‘you have,’ not, ‘you got’.”

“ _You_ always say ‘you got’.”

“You ain’t me.”

“I’m _not_ you,” said Sophia.

“Yeah,” said Daryl. “Like that.”

Another long pause. 

Daryl had painted the cupboards a while ago. He’d gotten a rack for dishes to dry, curtains for the windows, the flower plates. One of Sophia’s report cards was on the refrigerator. “What kinda homework is it?” he asked finally.

“I don’t know, Daryl,” Sophia said, for the first time sounding testy. “They haven’t assigned it yet.”

“Maybe I could help you with it.” 

“Or maybe you could just come over today.”

“You know Rick?”

“The guy who arrested my mom?” Sophia still sounded annoyed. “Or you mean some other Rick?”

“That one,” said Daryl, picking up the plate, going over to dump the refuse in the trash.

“What about him?” Sophia said petulantly, after a little while.

“He’s a sad sack.” Daryl went to the sink to wash the plate, holding the phone in the crook of his neck.

“Is he really?” Sophia perked up, the way he meant her to.

“Yeah,” said Daryl. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” said Daryl. “He ain’t got no friends.”

“He’s got us,” Sophia pointed out.

“Yeah, but he forgets,” said Daryl. “He always thinks he has to take care of everyone.”

“Oh, I don’t know anyone like that,” Sophia said, sounding like she was rolling her eyes.

“Your momma’s just looking out for you,” Daryl said. 

“I meant—you know what, whatever. What’re you saying—you gotta go remind Deputy Grimes you’re his best pal?”

“Nah.” Daryl put the plate in the drying rack, then went back to the table. Picked up the pack of cigarettes. “I just gotta help him with something.”

“Like with making friends?”

“Nah.” Daryl went over to the trash. Threw the pack of cigarettes into it. “Building a crib. For his baby.”

A pause. “Oh. Why didn’t you just say that?”

“He could probably build it his self.”

“No,” said Sophia. “You should help him.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Sophia paused. “I gotta read _The Outsiders_ anyway.”

Daryl looked at the trash, got the pack of cigarettes out. “That a book?” he asked.

He could hear her rolling her eyes again. “No, it’s a magazine. It’s about you, you’d like it.”

Daryl walked with the pack of cigarettes over to the bathroom. “What about Tuesday?” he said finally.

“I’m gonna have homework then, too.”

“What about Wednesday?” Daryl asked, looking down at the toilet. Looking at the pack of cigarettes. Back at the toilet, where he’d flushed the coke.

“Do you need some information about how the school system works?” said Sophia. “I know you dropped out when you were like five, but I got some news for you.”

Taking the pack with him, Daryl left the trailer. Went outside, sat on the porch swing he’d gotten for the girls, and pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. “I could read it,” he said, after a long draw. “Your book. What is it again?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I gotta learn how to read first, but maybe in a few years I can say my alphabets and—”

“I was just kidding,” Sophia said quickly. “About you being a drop-out.”

“Nah,” Daryl said. “You were right. What’s the book called again?”

“ _The Outsiders_. Are you really gonna read it?” 

“Don’t get too excited. I ain’t gonna do no character analysis. And I ain’t reading no _Twilight_ ,” he added.

“That’s okay.” Sophia paused. “You can come over Monday. Like _maybe_ I’ll make time for you. If your buddy _Rick_ ain’t too lonely.”

Daryl gestured aimlessly with his cigarette. “I dunno. He might cry.”

“Well, tell him to come,” said Sophia.

“Maybe I will.”

There was a sound over the phone, then Sophia must’ve accidentally touched something, because there was a beep. Daryl heard muffled talking, then Sophia called out, “Yeah, I’m coming!” in his ear real loud. “I gotta go,” she said.

“That’s a surprise,” Daryl said, sardonically.

“You wanna talk to Mom?”

“Nah,” said Daryl. 

“Okay,” said Sophia. “Then bye. I guess.”

“Sophia.”

“What?”

Daryl didn’t know what he was gonna say. 

_You ain’t as worthless as you look_ , Merle would say.

 _Love you, pumpkin,_ Carol would say.

Rick would . . . Daryl didn’t know what Rick would say.

 _I’m not fucking around,_ he’d say. _I’m serious about this._

“Nothing.”

“Oookay,” said Sophia dragging the word out. “See you tomorrow!”

“Yeah,” Daryl said. “Bye.”

Sophia hung up, and Daryl sat there, smoking on the swing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this fic has been the most fun I've had in fandom in a long time, as a result of those who regularly commented. I've loved having conversations with you, seeing what you've thought, sharing my own thoughts. Please know that you've brought me at least as much entertainment and good-feeling as hopefully this story has brought you, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> This story would not have been possible without Wind_Ryder, who beta'ed the first 9 chapters. Thank you so much, my first TWD friend, for your welcome, your kindness, and your encouragement. This story also would not have been possible without snickfic, who is one of the loveliest gals you will ever meet. Thank you both.

“’Lay Footboard X and Headboard Y down horizontally, outside face down,’” said Rick, reading the instructions for the crib. 

The print was too small for Daryl to read without pressing it up to his face, and the instructions didn’t really make sense anyway, because half the pieces weren’t labelled. 

Daryl had taken another shower after talking to Carol and Sophia, trying to get the smell of smoke off him. He’d brushed his teeth twice and gargled, put on deodorant, then got in the shower and washed his hair again. What if Rick tried to kiss him and pulled back because he tasted like ash? 

He scrubbed his skin until he started thinking how much harder he’d have to rub to make it bleed, then finally stopped. Got out and brushed his teeth again, put on more deodorant, wished he had cologne to make him smell as good as Rick, wished he did his laundry with special soap or them dryer sheets or something so his clothes could smell nice, and finally got his shit-show on the road.

Once he got back to Rick’s apartment, Rick didn’t say nothing about how Daryl had taken an hour-and-a-half longer than he should have. Instead he’d just taken Daryl to the bedroom, where Rick had said he was gonna put the crib. _In case she cries_ , said Rick. The other bedroom was Carl’s. 

Rick’s hair had still been wet from his own shower; he smelled like soap and Old Spice. Daryl wouldn’t’ve been able to stop staring, only assembling the crib provided a pretty good distraction. It was interesting, like a puzzle.

After two hours, the puzzle was far less interesting, mainly because Rick was kinda anal about the instructions. 

“’Insert an Upper Bushing Guide C and affix with a Flathead Machine screw J to the Footboard X,’” said Rick. “Which one is the guide bushing, again?”

“This.” Daryl tapped it with a screwdriver.

“Oh.” Rick frowned. “You already did that. ‘Test to see that the Metal Top Track will slide freely over the Upper Guide Bushing—’”

Daryl picked up the drill.

“It says not to use a drill,” said Rick. “It says if you over-tighten it . . .” Rick scanned the instructions again. “’The Upper Bushing might compress and the bushing must not bind when sliding in groove of the Metal Top Track.’”

“It slides fine,” Daryl pointed out, pulling on the top track to show Rick it slid over the bushing. “You’re gonna put a drawer down here, though, right?” Daryl pointed to the picture on the box, which showed a crib with an attached changing table. Waving the rail at Rick, Daryl went on, “So you need a rail, but it don’t line up with the footboard. So, you need to drill it. They didn’t put the right number of holes in.”

“Wait a second.” Rick scanned the instructions.

“Rick.”

“Yeah, I know, just wait.” 

Rolling his eyes, Daryl fiddled with the rail. Tapped it against his thigh. Tapped it against the floor. Dropped it, picked up the drill and pressed the button, making the bit swirl with a high-pitched mechanical whirl. Rick frowned, still scanning the instructions. This fucker was gonna take forever, Rick and his careful reading, following all of the instructions, holy hell. Daryl pressed the button on the drill again.

“Stop it,” Rick snapped.

Daryl eyed him. Waited. Then, slowly, pressed the button on the drill again.

“You trying to drive me outta my mind?” Rick said.

“Maybe.” 

“Gimme that.” Daryl thought Rick meant the drill, but Rick grabbed the rail, then looked at the footboard. Then looked at the instructions. Then looked at the footboard.

“Says it’s got six holes,” Daryl said. “Don’t it?” 

Rick just kept looking back and forth between the rail, the footboard, and the instructions.

Daryl pressed the button on the drill again.

“Yeah, okay.” Standing up, Rick threw the instructions at him. “Drill your stupid holes. I’m gonna go make lunch.”

“With what? Lucky Charms?”

“Gimme a break,” Rick said, stomping out of the room.

“Why?” Daryl shouted out after him.

“Because you feel sorry for me,” Rick shouted back.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Daryl put the rail on the footboard to measure the place for the sixth hole. Taking off the rail, he lined up the drill bit, then pressed the button on the drill again.

*

“This is a mess,” Rick said.

It was around three. They’d stopped for lunch—thawed chicken, carrots, and cottage cheese, which Daryl thought was the saddest lunch ever—and then worked another half hour. Rick had finally accepted his precious instructions were shit and mostly just did what Daryl told him to now—which was good, because holding up the crossbars and stuff was easier with two people. And it was good Daryl had brought his tools, too, because Rick didn’t have a level or a crescent wrench.

Like damn, did he leave everything with Lori? What, was Lori gonna use them? Daryl didn’t know; maybe she would. Rick was certainly useless with this shit, even if how hard he tried was kinda cute. 

“Ain’t my fault you bought an inferior product,” said Daryl.

“How was I to know?” 

The crib was only two-thirds done. Rick had stopped again to bring them both beers, but Daryl was pretty sure it was because Rick was fed up with the crib. He was just leaning against the wall, drinking, while Daryl tinkered with the bolt plugs, which didn’t quite fit. “They didn’t give you no screw caps neither.”

Rick took a swig of beer, then leaned his head back against the wall. “It doesn’t need screw caps.”

“It would look better when it’s done.”

“I don’t think Judy’s gonna care.”

“Still want it to look nice for her.”

“Yeah.”

Daryl’s gaze slid over to him at his tone. Rick’s voice had gone husky, and Daryl felt his face get hot. Christ. Why was Rick always . . . ?

Daryl couldn’t even finish the thought. He took a quick sip of beer. “So, you got sheets and stuff?” he said, turning back to the bolt plug.

“Not yet,” said Rick. “I was gonna go to Babies”R”Us.”

“You already got your own bed put together,” Daryl pointed out, not looking at him.

Rick didn’t say anything for a minute, and Daryl fiddled with the plug, trying to make it fit in the hole. “They had different timelines,” Rick said at last.

“What timelines?” Daryl grabbed the drill, still not looking at him.

“Judith’s not gonna be in that bed until next weekend,” said Rick. A pause. “And I wanted you in mine as soon as possible.”

Daryl pressed the button on the drill, which was already fitted with a wide bit so he could get the hole for the plug a little wider. Mostly, he just didn’t want there to be silence after Rick’s words, or admit that he had heard them. His whole face felt like it was on fire.

“Daryl,” Rick said, once Daryl had stopped drilling.

“We just gotta install the mini-blocs after this,” Daryl said quickly.

Rick sighed. “Okay,” he said, getting up. Coming over to Daryl, he set down his beer and sat across from him.

“You do this just like a normal drawer. Like from IKEA,” Daryl said, pushing the pieces Rick’s way. “You’ve done IKEA, right?” 

“Yeah,” Rick said, mouth twisting up. “I’ve done IKEA.”

“Then you can figure it out.” Daryl turned back to the bolt plugs. “We should go get screw covers after this,” he added.

“At the hardware store?”

“Yeah, you ever been to one?”

Rick threw a drop pin at his head.

“Maybe I could take you to a Publix,” said Daryl. “Buy you something besides Lucky Charms.”

“I told you they were for Carl.”

“You don’t think he needs, like, vegetables?”

“You’re as bad as him.”

“Well, I get why he’s tough on you. Me and him, we’re on the same page.”

“Yeah.”

Rick’s voice was low and warm, and so tender that Daryl threw the drop pin back at him.

“Hey!” said Rick.

“You’re doing that drawer wrong,” Daryl said.

“You’re not even looking at it.”

“I can feel it.”

Rick fiddled with the drawer some more while Daryl got the last of the plugs in. “Home Depot is next to Babies”R”Us,” Rick said, after a while.

With all the plugs in place, Daryl could finally get the dropside on. Standing up, he picked up the dropside, looking at the tracks to figure out how it slid in.

“Do you need help?” Rick said, standing as well.

“Hold it for me.” 

Rick held the dropside while Daryl moved the bushings along the tracks. “Okay, tilt it,” Daryl said. When Rick tilted it, Daryl tugged, so the bushings slid into the tracks. “Drop it down,” said Daryl. Rick tilted it back, letting go, and the dropside slid into place.

“The instructions made that look hard,” said Rick.

“We could go to Babies”R”Us,” Daryl said.

“I meant I could pick up the screw caps when I go down there later this week,” said Rick.

Daryl turned back to the dropside to make sure it slid up and down correctly.

“You really wanna shop diapers with me?”

Daryl shrugged, not meeting Rick’s eyes. “I’m free.” He pulled the dropside up again, then slid it back down. It slipped down perfectly.

“Come here,” Rick said, but instead of waiting for Daryl to come, Rick moved in and kissed him, touching Daryl’s face, slanting his lips over Daryl’s.

“You sure like to kiss,” Daryl said, pulling away.

Rick’s hand fell to his sides. “You don’t?”

“It’s cool.” Feeling like a jerk for having made Rick feel weird about it, Daryl put his hand on Rick’s stomach. Slid his palm over Rick’s long sleeve t-shirt, till Daryl’s hand was on Rick’s hip, then Daryl kissed him—one of his clumsy, sloppy kisses, but he wanted to show Rick he liked it.

“Daryl.” Rick pulled away for air, pressing his forehead against Daryl’s.

“You wanna go to the hardware now?” Daryl asked.

“Fuck,” Rick muttered.

“What, screw caps get you turned on?”

“Daryl.” Rick pulled him closer, kissing him again

Daryl could see where this was heading. It was gonna get there real soon if he didn’t do nothing about it. Jake used to accuse him of being a tease. Sometimes, Daryl kinda had been. Rick kissed him for another minute, and Daryl pulled away. “Screw caps,” he said.

“Maybe later,” Rick said, reaching for him.

“Nah. Let’s go now.” Bending down, Daryl picked up their empty beer bottles and headed toward the kitchen.

Eventually, Rick followed him out.

*

“Maybe you should get a drill,” Daryl said, when they were at the Home Depot.

“I got one,” said Rick. “I just . . . gotta go get it.”

“She ain’t gonna use it?”

“Lori?” Rick made a face. “No.”

Daryl walked past the aisle with the power tools. “Thought maybe she did all the home repairs.”

“I’ll have you know I was _good_ at home repairs.”

Daryl shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Jesus,” Rick said, sounding amused. “You sound just like Shane.”

Daryl started walking faster, past the screws, down to the screw caps. Once he found them he started digging through them, slamming the packages around.

“Hey,” said Rick.

“These,” Daryl said, grabbing a package.

“Okay.” Rick held his hand out.

“I’ll get them. You didn’t want it to look nice anyway.” Daryl pushed past him.

Rick didn’t say nothing in the checkout. He didn’t say nothing in the walk through the parking lot. He didn’t say nothing when they got in the truck—not, _stop being an asshole_ and not, _you know I didn’t mean it that way_. No attempt to explain himself, not a reprimand, nothing, just silence and politeness and a little resignation.

“I always did all the stuff around the trailer,” Daryl said finally, when they were on the road to the baby store. “Merle was shit at it.”

Rick looked over at him.

“Couldn’t even keep the place clean till you arrested him,” Daryl said. “His porn was always everywhere.”

“You’re welcome,” said Rick.

Daryl tapped his hand on the wheel. He guessed they were okay. Rick hadn’t meant nothing by saying he reminded him of Shane. Shane had been his best friend, after all; it weren’t a bad thing if Daryl reminded him of that. Daryl knew Rick didn’t mean he was a liar or a cheater, or that Rick was just using him as some kinda stand-in for someone he liked more.

Rick liked him. He really liked him; he’d said it. He’d said it and he’d meant it.

Daryl’s chest hurt.

“Why do you drive that Honda?” he asked suddenly.

“You’d rather I take the cruiser?”

They’d taken the truck in case there was a lot of stuff. Rick had mentioned part of the reason he hadn’t gotten the other baby stuff when he’d gotten the crib was it wouldn’t fit in the car; he’d had to wedge in the crib and strap the rocking chair on top.

He’d gotten the bed delivered.

“I mean the Honda sucks,” said Daryl.

“Thanks,” said Rick.

Daryl’s eyes slid over to him as he pulled into the parking lot. 

“You think I should get a fancy truck like you?” Rick asked.

“I just don’t want you to have a Honda,” Daryl said, searching for a space. He guessed he shouldn’t mention the Subaru. It must really be Lori’s.

“What’s wrong with Hondas?”

Daryl stole another look at him, then maneuvered the truck into a parking space.

“It’s not a bad car,” said Rick.

Daryl rolled the rest of the way in, then jammed the truck into park. 

“It’s not,” said Rick.

“Pfft.” Daryl got out of the truck.

Rick got out too, slamming his door closed and catching up to Daryl. “The Honda is reliable,” said Rick.

Leaning into him, Daryl pushed his shoulder up against Rick’s, making him miss a step.

Rick pushed him back.

“It’s shit,” Daryl said.

When they got into Babies”R”Us, they were still bitching about cars. Hondas weren’t actually that bad. Honda Civics were sturdy, long-lasting. Just Rick’s Honda in particular was a shame, because it was so obvious he had it to be sturdy and long-lasting. Also, Rick looked so bent out of shape about Daryl ragging on it that Daryl wanted to rag on it more. Regardless, making fun of Hondas stopped Daryl from thinking about how they were going into a baby store.

They went over to the crib section to look at the bedding, which wasn’t just sheets, Daryl realized. There were soft little walls that went around the side, skirts, blankets, quilts, and all kinds of things. No pillows, though. Rick said babies could suffocate on a pillow and Daryl tried not to look freaked out. There was a lot to choose from. Daryl and Rick walked back and forth among them several times.

“Which one are you getting?” Daryl asked finally, after they’d been walking around ten minutes.

“I don’t know.” Rick sounded frustrated.

“What does she like?”

“She’s twenty-six weeks old, Daryl.”

“Six and a half months. What’s she got in her other crib?”

Rick looked at him sharply.

Maybe Rick hadn’t seen her other crib, and the thought made Daryl’s heart sink. Hadn’t he got to see his own baby? His own baby in her own crib?

 _They don’t even know if Judith is his_ , Carl had said, and Daryl hated that. Wouldn’t Rick want to know?

Rick stood there among all the baby cribs—salt-and-pepper beard, curling hair, kind mouth, long fucking eyelashes and of course he didn’t want to know. Rick had looked past what Lori had done, and Shane. He was always looking past who people were and what they did. If he’d’ve held everyone up to the kinda person he was, he wouldn’t have no one.

But he wanted Daryl. He had Daryl.

“She’s got flowers,” Rick said finally. “On her other crib. It’s got these . . .” He waved a hand, just looking so fucking sad. He turned away. “There are roses on the bumper.”

“Let’s get her animals,” Daryl said. 

There was a sheet set with zebras and giraffes. Rick and Daryl found all the packages that matched and put them in the cart.

“You gonna get her one of them dangly things?” Daryl asked.

“Dangly things?”

Daryl waved his hand around to demonstrate. “You know. For above the crib.”

“A mobile?”

“Yeah. You should get her a mobile.”

They found one of those with animals on it too, but it was monkeys and birds instead of zebras and giraffes, which was stupid. “How come it don’t match?” Daryl said, taking the monkey mobile out of the cart.

“Because giraffes don’t fly,” said Rick.

“Monkeys don’t fly.”

“They climb in trees,” Rick pointed out.

Daryl still didn’t like it. “You should get her one with trucks,” he said, grabbing another box off the shelf.

“Do they have one with Hondas?” Rick said, sounding real interested.

Daryl punched him in the arm.

“I gotta get her a high chair,” Rick said. 

Daryl put the mobile with the monkeys on the shelf, and the one with the trucks into the cart.

Rick’s mouth ticked up. 

The high chairs were in the next section. Rick rolled the cart over there, looking at all of them—chairs with adjustable heights, removable trays, different patterns, various do-dads, bells, and whistles. Daryl didn’t know how they were gonna decide on one of them either. Rick seemed similarly indecisive. “I could ask Lori to bring one,” Rick said, sounding unhappy with the idea.

Daryl got the impression Rick didn’t like the idea of asking Lori for anything—at least when it came to Judith. He wondered if Rick wanted to show Lori he was a capable father, which was dumb. How could she not know? What about Carl? She ever heard him talk about Carl? Daryl had never met a dad like Rick; he was like a storybook. A storybook dad.

Daryl’s chest still hurt.

“How come you ain’t got to get her before?” Daryl asked, knowing it was probably something he shouldn’t ask, but unable to stop himself. “Judith, I mean.”

“I got to have her sometimes,” Rick said, pushing forward through the aisle to look at another high chair. “Just not overnight.”

“But why?” Daryl said, following.

“She wasn’t doing well with formula. She’ll eat anything, now.”

“That’s good,” said Daryl. “Since all you got is Lucky Charms.”

Rick rolled his eyes, but smiled, just like Daryl wanted him to.

“You should get this one,” Daryl said. The highchair had a picture of a lion and a tiger on the seat. And a butterfly. They looked like they were all friends.

“I’m looking for one with Hondas,” said Rick.

“I should get to pick it,” Daryl said. 

“She’s my daughter.” 

“Yeah, but who’s gonna assemble it? You with your ‘good at home repairs’?”

Rick’s lips twitched. Then he just . . . smiled, shaking his head at Daryl but still smiling, with teeth. With actual teeth, like a real smile.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Daryl walked on ahead, feeling stupid at the way his cheeks were heating up. Christ, in the middle of a baby store, too. 

Artificial lights colored everything, reflecting off the stark white floor. The stuff on the shelves nearby was all bold colors, more light bouncing off the sheening bits of plastic. Everything was so bright, clean, happy-colored. For a moment, Daryl thought that if someone could see inside him, they would see the same thing. 

What a stupid thought.

“Diapers are this way,” Rick said.

Daryl glanced into the cart. The highchair with the lion was in its box on the bed underneath the cart basket.

Daryl wasn’t much help with the diapers. The age ranges were smaller print and the pictures were no help, just kids and babies in puffy plastic underwear. Daryl kinda felt like an idiot, but he’d made Rick smile so he guessed things weren’t all bad. “You ain’t gotta get bottles?” he said, as they wheeled out of the aisle.

“Lori’s gonna bring those,” said Rick. Turned out he did need to get bibs and wipes and like a thousand towels. “For when she spits up,” said Rick.

“She plan on doing that a lot?”

“Pretty much all the time,” said Rick.

“Make Carl hold her,” said Daryl.

“I’ll make you hold her,” said Rick.

Daryl’s hands tightened at his sides. “Nah,” he finally managed to say.

Rick didn’t say anything, just pushed the cart along.

Daryl grabbed the truck mobile out of the cart. “Imma put this back,” he said.

Turning around, he left Rick with all the towels and things, went to go find the cribs, which had the mobiles by them. Judith didn’t care which dangly thing she had. She was a baby. Babies didn’t know shit about anything. Babies weren’t even real people. Babies were caterpillar-people who hatched into real people. Soft, weak things that could suffocate even if you just gave them a little pillow. They couldn’t even eat on their own, had to be fed, special foods and Rick said they spit it all up anyway and they were helpless, completely helpless. You had to do everything for them, and what if you messed up?

Like what if you messed it all up and accidentally killed one. Christ on a cracker, how could Rick even _think_ about saying Daryl should hold one? Rick was stupid. He was out of his mind—but he wasn’t, because it was just a baby. Just a baby. Normal people didn’t freak out about babies.

Normal people didn’t crave a cigarette every other minute either, so Daryl should probably just calm down. Rick thought he could hold a baby.

Rick wanted him to hold his baby.

Putting the trucks back on the shelf, Daryl got the mobile with the monkeys, then went to go find Rick.

“Changed your mind?” Rick said calmly, when Daryl rejoined him and put the monkey-mobile in the cart. Rick was wheeling through an aisle of bath stuff—toys and towels and weirdly shaped bowl-things, which Daryl guessed was because babies were little. You probably didn’t wanna put them in a big tub. That could probably drown them, and Daryl tried not to freak out over that either. Washing them in bowls instead made sense when you thought about it.

“You ain’t gonna get her a bowl?” Daryl asked.

“Huh?” Daryl pointed at the bowls and Rick smiled again, just a little one. “Probably not. You don’t bathe them all that much. Few times a week, usually.”

Daryl scowled. “Ain’t they . . .” _smelly_. He glanced over at Rick for help, but Rick’s smile was changing to a smirk. 

“They don’t really have much body odor,” Rick said. “And I wasn’t planning on having her crawl around in dirt.”

“Ain’t my fault if you want a dirty kid,” Daryl said. “Thought you were a good dad.”

Rick looked away. “Yeah,” he said, in his sad way.

Jesus. Rick was such a downer. Daryl hated that he’d failed to make him smile, and hated himself for hating it. Fucking _baby_ shopping. Picking up a rubber duck, Daryl threw it in the cart.

“What’s that for?” Rick asked.

“She’s gotta have toys, don’t she? Hey.” Daryl perked up. “You think they got ponies here?”

“You mean like, to ride?” Rick was laughing at him again.

“They got toys, right? You think they got pony toys?”

Rick just looked at him.

“What?” said Daryl, annoyed.

“Nothing.” Rick pushed the cart, and they turned around the corner of the aisle. “Here you go,” he said. “There’s gotta be ponies here.” 

The aisle was full of toys and stuffed animals. Daryl seized a brown one. It was soft and had hair—like not just fabric hair, hair that stuck out kinda like real hair. But not creepy, like real hair would’ve been. 

“Pretty sure that’s a llama,” Rick said.

Daryl frowned at it. “Why would they have a llama?”

Rick shrugged.

“That’s stupid.” Daryl put it back. 

Rick pushed the cart and they walked along the stuffed animals and toys, Daryl scanning the shelves for horses. After a few steps, he picked up another stuffed animal.

“That’s a turtle,” Rick said helpfully.

“I ain’t an idiot,” Daryl said, and put it back. The turtle was just really nice. Judith would probably like it. She didn’t have to have a horse; it was just a thought he’d had. Daryl picked up another animal.

“That’s an owl.” 

“Shut up,” said Daryl. “I’m just looking.” He tossed the owl aside and they walked along. At the end of the aisle, Daryl picked up an elephant. “Can we get her this one?” he asked. Rick didn’t say anything, so Daryl glanced up.

“Yeah.” Rick sounded a little hoarse, but he just kept rolling the cart along, turning the corner of the aisle.

Daryl looked at the elephant. Rick must’ve been thinking about Judith playing with it. It was a pretty great elephant, Daryl had to admit. Like if you were a worm-person who didn’t know anything, it’d be a good toy. Most of it was trunk and ears, with little black eyes. The inside of the ears was even softer than the rest of it, which was already so soft Daryl’s hands sank right into it. 

Around the corner of the aisle was an open section with a bunch of silver stands, hangers hanging off the stands with clothes for different ages. “We gonna get her clothes?” Daryl said, looking around.

“We can get her anything you want.” It seemed like a kinda weird thing to say, but when Daryl glanced at Rick, Rick had that unreadable expression on. 

“Whatever,” Daryl said, tossing the elephant into the cart. 

Daryl didn’t know nothing about shopping for baby clothes and Rick didn’t seem too concerned about doing the shopping himself. He just rolled the cart along.

None of the clothes looked like they were for real people. They looked like they were for dolls. Pausing at a pink dress, Daryl frowned. How could a human being wear that? No one was ever that tiny. Daryl reached out, then realized he was doing it. Making himself stop, he glanced around, hoping Rick hadn’t noticed that he was gonna pet the stupid ruffles on a stupid dress.

Rick was staring at him.

“What?” Daryl demanded.

Rick licked his lips. Shrugged.

They walked through the clothes to the six-to-nine months section, where Rick finally stopped rolling the cart and looked at all the tiny clothes. Daryl didn’t want to touch them, but he kinda wandered around, looking at the ones that were on the fronts of the racks. 

He found one that said “Daddy’s Little Girl,” which he thought was nice, but he didn’t say anything. Daryl didn’t want Rick to have to think about whose kid Judith was, despite the _she’s my daughter_ he’d said over near the high chairs. Something with a pony on it would be better, Daryl decided, moving on. 

“Think we should get that one?” Rick said after a minute.

Daryl twisted to look over his shoulder at Rick, who’d come up behind him. “It’s pink,” Daryl said, turning back to the tiny shirt he’d stopped in front of.

Rick looked at him, not at the shirt.

“It’s got a backhoe,” Daryl pointed out, because it was weird. A pink shirt with a backhoe. Girls could like construction equipment, he guessed. Or maybe the shirt was supposed to be for a boy. Maybe people put boys in pink shirts now. Maybe that was a thing. Like gay rights.

“Should we get it?” Rick asked.

Turning to him, Daryl scowled, because that was a weird thing to say too. “I don’t know, man,” Daryl said, feeling off-kilter. “She’s your kid.”

“Yeah.” Rick pulled the shirt off the stand, went over to the cart, threw it in. Started wheeling away, and Daryl didn’t know what he’d done wrong. He didn’t know why Rick thought he could pick out baby clothes.

Then again Rick seemed to think he was good for all kinds of shit he wasn’t, so who knew, with Rick. The guy was a fucking mystery.

Rick was wheeling up to the registers and Daryl followed, trying not to fidget. They hadn’t really seen that many folks in the store, maybe because all the people were here up front—grandmas and moms, some guys but mostly gals, some kids. Rick and Daryl got behind this lady that had the cart full of diapers and bath bowls and all kinds of things, things Daryl couldn’t even determine the use of, contraptions that looked like colorful torture devices. In the next lane over some kid was crying.

Daryl shifted from foot to foot. Rick looked at him with that inscrutable gaze, and Daryl wondered whether people were looking at Rick look at him. These two guys with facial hair and baby stuff. Rick looked like a cop. Daryl knew what he himself looked like—rough, like someone from a biker gang, a meth head. What would people think seeing him there with Rick—would they know he was a queer? Would they imagine Rick arresting him? Would they think they were just . . . like . . . bros? 

“Imma wait outside,” Daryl said.

“Okay,” Rick said.

Once he got outside to the curb, Daryl realized he had nothing to do but stand there with his hands jammed in his pockets. Goddamn, he’d kill for a cigarette. The pack he’d bought that morning was in the truck. He could just have one.

Daryl lifted up on his toes, sank back down. Paced back and forth. Tapped his fingers on his thigh. Jesus fucking Christ, did he want one. But Rick was gonna smell it, and then he might not kiss him.

Fuck.

This was messed up. This was real messed up. Why was he at a baby store, for Chrissake, him, how much more of a faggot could you be, and when he thought of those tiny little clothes in there—Jesus, he was an alcoholic. He’d almost snorted coke this morning. He’d been arrested three times. Did Rick even know that? What was his fucking problem?

“Come on,” said Rick.

He’d come out of the store, wheeling the cart full of stuff. Daryl didn’t know he’d been out here that long, but he followed as Rick wheeled the cart to the truck. Helped Rick get the highchair into the bed, grabbed the bags to put inside the cab. Rick took the cart back up to the front, and Daryl got in the truck to start the engine.

As he drove them back to Rick’s apartment, Daryl drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Rick didn’t do nothing like put his hand on him to stop him, calm him down. In fact, Rick remained weirdly silent, and Daryl tried to figure out whether he’d done something wrong. Maybe he should’ve waited in line with Rick, but Rick had been weird before that. He’d been weird about the baby clothes, and the elephant—maybe he didn’t like Daryl picking out toys for his little girl. He could’ve said.

Instead Rick just looked out the window. Daryl kept glancing at him anyway. He liked the back of Rick’s head—the shallow start of curls, the way Rick’s long neck angled, the flow from his neck into the shoulder, the triangle of throat visible above his shirt. 

Christ, Daryl was really gay. He turned back to look at the road.

When they got to the apartment, Daryl got out and started unloading the highchair. 

“Leave it,” said Rick.

Daryl frowned. “What if it rains?”

“Fine,” Rick said tightly. He grabbed the bags in the cab, and they went over to the apartment. Rick got the door unlocked and they went through, Daryl walking to the dining room to lean the highchair box against the wall. When he turned around Rick was there, pushing him up against the wall beside the box. Daryl stumbled back, and Rick kissed him. 

The kiss was one of those devouring kisses, impolite and toothy, Rick’s teeth mashing up against Daryl’s and Rick’s toes practically stepping on Daryl’s as Rick crowded him against the wall. Daryl was so surprised by it that he stood there like a fucking idiot, just like he always did, trying to figure out why it was happening, what was Rick going for, kissing him like this in the middle of the afternoon, after baby shopping.

Confusion and desire made Daryl’s chest tighten. He wanted it, what Rick was doing, just didn’t understand what Rick wanted from him—but while Daryl was still trying to wrap his head around a question, Rick began yanking on him. Still kissing him, Rick got them turned around, then pushed forward, Daryl tripping back with his mouth open so that Rick could kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. Daryl was gonna fall on his ass, trying to back up with Rick pressing forward, but when Daryl did the couch was underneath. They were in the living-room and Rick was sinking down on top of him, mouth crashing back into Daryl’s.

Then Rick was moving to kiss Daryl’s neck, sucking there while his hands went down and he unbuttoned Daryl’s jeans, got his hand in. Daryl still didn’t know what had gotten Rick riled and horny in the middle of the day, but he wasn’t opposed—Daryl was always pretty much ready for it, whenever Rick wanted; he could try to tease but he was never gonna hold out very long. Rick got Daryl’s dick out and wrapped a solid warm hand around it, and Daryl’s hips gave a little jerk.

Pulling his mouth away from Daryl’s neck, Rick slid down Daryl’s body, onto the floor. Between Daryl’s knees.

“Rick,” Daryl said, struggling to sit up straight, realizing what Rick was gonna do.

Rick was already reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a condom, and Daryl’s brain momentarily shorted on the fact that Rick had had condoms in his back pocket the whole time. He’d had them at the _baby_ store, at the hardware; Christ, he really was a fucking Boy Scout, and Rick was already opening the package and getting it out.

Then he was setting it on Daryl’s cock and rolling it down. Daryl reached for Rick’s hands to stop him because he had to do something, but Rick grabbed his wrist. “You can still say your word,” he said.

Daryl looked at the condom, half-rolled down his cock; at Rick’s hand, still gripping Daryl’s wrist; Rick’s eyes, trying to hold Daryl’s.

“You remember what it is?” said Rick, letting him go.

Daryl wasn’t tied up. He could push Rick away this time, get out of it.

“Daryl?” Rick tilted his head, trying to catch Daryl’s eyes again.

Squirming, Daryl tried to decide what to do. Saying yes would be agreeing; he’d be _letting_ Rick do it but if he did, afterwards he could say no and Rick would still do it but then it wouldn’t be Daryl’s fault—

“Okay.” Rick started rolling the condom off.

“I remember it,” Daryl said, fast, so he wouldn’t have to hear himself say it.

“Yeah?” said Rick, pausing. “You gonna use it?”

Daryl shook his head vehemently, and Rick’s expression softened. 

“I meant, are you gonna use it if you need it?” Rick said, quite gently.

God, why was Rick even doing this? Why did he wanna suck him off so bad; what could he get out of it; didn’t he know he could get anything he wanted from Daryl for free?

“I won’t ask again,” said Rick. “Just tell me whether you want it this way all the time. You can say anything you want, anytime, and I’ll keep going. I’ll only ever stop if you say eclipse.”

Daryl bit his lip. 

“It’s just a different way to say no, in case you need it,” said Rick. “I’m not gonna want you less either way.”

Daryl’s hips bucked once, uncontrollably, thrusting his dick toward Rick, who was just kneeling there, between Daryl’s legs, waiting.

Rick wrapped his hand around Daryl’s dick again, warm and steady—almost as though to keep him still, rather than jack him, because his hand didn’t move and neither did Rick’s eyes, boring straight into Daryl’s face even though Daryl couldn’t look at him.

“You gotta gimme a yes or no,” Rick said. “Just this once.”

“Yes,” Daryl said, because this was torture and he wanted to get it over with.

“Good,” said Rick, still holding his gaze. “That was real good.”

“Rick,” Daryl said, unable to control the pumping of his hips again. Fuck, he was just sitting here with his legs open, a condom half on him, and he already felt like coming. God, why couldn’t Rick just _do_ something—

“You’re so good for me,” Rick said. Then he rolled the condom the rest of the way on and put his mouth on it, and Daryl didn’t wanna fuck up into his mouth but it was real hard to stop himself. Rick made Daryl wanna—he wanted to—he didn’t even know what he wanted to do; Daryl wanted to fuck. 

He wanted to fuck just like a slut would fuck, moving his ass to get it, but it was a problem because Rick wasn’t in his ass; his mouth was on Daryl’s cock, and Daryl didn’t wanna fuck Rick’s mouth. The last thing on Earth Daryl ever wanted to do was to fuck Rick’s mouth, because it was Rick and he was doing this as a favor, a favor to Daryl even though Daryl didn’t know why he would. Rick was just that kinda guy—nice and generous, noble.

Thinking about how noble Rick was and looking at him with his lips wrapped around Daryl’s cock was gonna make Daryl shoot his load right there.

Like Rick was so _good_ , and there he was, doing this obscene thing that he shouldn’t be doing. It was obvious he shouldn’t be doing it because he was still kinda bad at it—covering the head of Daryl’s cock with his mouth and sucking, but pausing to swallow too often, no rhythm in it. When he’d come back off there was so much saliva—too much; it was straight up scandalous, watching Rick try to lick all the spit off the wet condom. Then Rick had to pull all the way off to swallow, and his mouth going back at it—unskilled but determined, like Rick was _stubborn_ about cocksucking—made Daryl wanna thrust up into Rick’s mouth again.

Fuck. Daryl’s fists ached, twisting in the couch; he was clenching them so hard.

And Rick wasn’t just noble. He was a cop. He was a good dad. He voted like a proper little American citizen and he’d been a Boy Scout and he didn’t smoke or do drugs or nothing; he’d probably never stolen anything in his life. Rick knew how to ride horses. He’d bought a fucking rocking chair so he could rock his baby girl to sleep and there he was, trying to find Daryl’s slit through the condom with his tongue and looking kinda like a fool—Rick shouldn’t be doing this. He was too good for this; good people didn’t do this, and it was just so wrong and nasty and downright vile that Daryl was gonna come just looking at him.

Rick wrapped his hand around the root of Daryl’s cock and Daryl couldn’t help it, his hips jerked again. Then Rick’s other hand grabbed Daryl’s wrist and brought it down to his hair.

Daryl’s dick jumped while it was in Rick’s mouth, causing Rick to make a noise—the only one, besides gratuitous sounds of sucking—but Daryl’s hand was in Rick’s hair and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do because he loved it, getting to touch those curls; he wanted to—he didn’t know; he wanted to comb his hand through them, to touch them over and over again. He wanted to bury his hand in them, down to Rick’s scalp, feel the sensitive skin there. He wanted to twist his hand in Rick’s curls and fist them, hold them tight and make Rick—God, make Rick—

Daryl’s head fell back, spine arching. He couldn’t look; he didn’t want to see; he wanted to twist a fist in Rick’s hair and hold him there so Daryl could fuck his face and he didn’t want to do it at all; he’d never wanted anything less—“No,” panted Daryl, “fuck, no.” He could say it; it felt good to say it—like he wasn’t letting this happen, like he wasn’t thinking about fucking Rick’s face. Daryl’s hand was still just touching the very tips of Rick’s curls, just hovering against his hair.

Rick’s hand covered his again and pushed Daryl’s hand, pressing it against his hair, pushing it against Rick’s skull, pushing Rick’s head farther down on Daryl’s cock—

Like Rick _wanted_ Daryl to fuck his mouth.

“No,” said Daryl, his hand clenching in Rick’s hair. He began to come uncontrollably.

He hadn’t expected it. He should’ve said something, but at least he had the condom so none of it could touch Rick’s perfect mouth and fuck, Daryl was seeing stars. He couldn’t even think. It was so good—so good—so good. Rick hadn’t kept it in his mouth but he was touching it, saying things—

“Good, you’re doing so good, honey. Keep coming for me.”

Fuck.

Rick moved up on top of him as Daryl’s hips started slowing, kissing him on the face—the temple, Daryl’s cheeks, his forehead. “I loved that. It was so good; you made me feel so good.”

 _You made me feel good._ What a fucking joke, when Daryl hadn’t done _anything_ yet, like what did Rick think felt good? And Rick had to do that stupid safeword thing because Daryl couldn’t even get head like a fucking man; what was wrong with him? Coming back to his senses, Daryl reached for Rick’s pants.

“Don’t,” said Rick, pushing Daryl’s hands away.

Not understanding what Rick meant, Daryl reached for Rick’s belt again.

“I said don’t,” Rick said, pushing him away, getting off of him.

“Don’t you want . . .” Daryl looked him over. Rick’s cheeks were slightly pink, that was _probably_ a bulge in his jeans.

“Yeah,” said Rick. “I just . . .” Leaning in, Rick kissed him, lips catching Daryl’s lower lip, drawing it in, sucking on it.

Daryl could feel the brush of hair on Rick’s face as Rick kissed him, Rick’s hands stroking up Daryl’s shoulders, the wet condom feeling like it was congealing around Daryl’s cock. Daryl started taking it off and Rick pulled back, watching, licking his lips. Daryl tied it off, dropped it on the floor, was gonna get on the floor himself—

“Stop,” said Rick, putting a hand on Daryl’s chest. “Can’t you just . . .” Rick kissed him again. Then again. “I just wanna make out with you.”

“Why?”

Pulling back, Rick looked at him like it was a stupid question. A really stupid question.

“Man,” Daryl said finally, shifting uncomfortably under Rick’s gaze. “I don’t get what you _want_.”

Rick looked away. His adam’s apple bobbed, hard. “Yeah.” He just sounded so disappointed, and it wasn’t fair, because _Rick_ was the one who’d decided to go down on him, in the middle of the afternoon, for no reason. After baby shopping. Like building cribs and diapers got Rick really worked up somehow; like, who would be able to explain that? Rick was the one who didn’t make any sense; it wasn’t Daryl’s fault.

Rick pulled away, and Daryl knew he’d fucked it up. 

“Wait,” Daryl said, reaching for him. With typical lack of finesse, Daryl lunged in, mashing his mouth up against Rick’s, headlong and unprepared. He knew he sucked at this, but Rick wanted it and more than anything, Daryl wanted to give Rick what he wanted. After a moment, Daryl had to pull away to breathe. 

“Daryl,” said Rick, hands coming up to hold Daryl’s face.

Biting Rick’s lower lip, Daryl pulled it into his mouth—sucked on it, because he was always staring at it anyway; he _wanted_ it, and then he bit it again, just because it was so soft. Then Daryl thrust his tongue in Rick’s mouth, thick and unforgiving. The angle was awkward, sitting beside each other on the couch, so Daryl pulled on Rick’s shoulders, trying to shimmy down so Rick could climb on top of him.

“Daryl,” Rick said again, grabbing Daryl’s shoulders and doing the opposite, moving so that Daryl would have to move over him to keep making out.

Daryl climbed on top of him awkwardly, not knowing where to put himself, but Rick shifted and made room for him, as though he knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe he did. Maybe guys climbed all over Rick all the time, but Daryl knew it wasn’t true, which meant Rick’s wife had climbed all over him. Which meant he liked it, and that had probably been real hot. 

Rick had to have had a pretty wife. Daryl bet she was gorgeous; Rick had said he liked beautiful people. Just imagine her, crawling all over Rick and knowing exactly what to do with him, knowing how to get him hot and getting her elegant hands on him, working on him. Rick had to miss that, someone who knew how to touch him, who knew what he wanted, who was graceful and clean and probably real smart—

“Come on, just touch me,” said Rick.

Oh yeah. Daryl hated how often Rick had to remind him, but he obeyed immediately, still kissing Rick stupidly on the mouth—Daryl should kiss him somewhere else, keep it interesting—but he had to get his hands on Rick, touch him the way he liked. Remembering how he’d done it before, Daryl got his hands under Rick’s shirt. Lifted it up, still kinda thinking about Rick’s wife and how she was better at this—then slid his hands up Rick’s shirt and remembered last night.

 _That used to drive me wild_ , Rick had said, when he’d sucked on Daryl’s nipples.

Fuck. Yeah. It was something Daryl could do that Rick had _said_ he’d liked, which was almost as good as Rick telling him to do it.

Stoked that he’d remembered, Daryl moved down, yanked up Rick’s shirt, got his mouth down onto Rick’s chest and realized he didn’t know what to do. Daryl kissed him there anyway, lips moving to Rick’s nipple, kissing it, then kind of licking it, getting his tongue out and swirling around it—he didn’t know. He just wanted it to feel good for Rick.

Daryl had never done this before. He didn’t even think about having nipples most the time; they were pointless on a guy. Maybe Rick was into it because he liked girls? Daryl tried to remember what Rick had done to him last night—he’d licked and sucked, used his teeth until it kinda hurt, so Daryl tried that too.

Rick hissed, hand coming up to tangle in Daryl’s hair.

Damn. Goddamn. Pulling back a little, Daryl licked his lips, checked Rick’s face. His head was thrown back, lying on the couch. Daryl guessed Rick liked it, but he was realizing now that he’d never really heard Rick moan or anything. Just say things like _yeah_ and _good_ , which was awesome, just—how into it was he, really? Did Rick ever lose control? About anything?

Wondering if he could get Rick to make a different sound, Daryl did it again, scraping his teeth over the areole, then biting down lightly on the nipple.

“Shit,” Rick muttered. His hand tightened in Daryl’s hair, and his other hand pushed at Daryl’s hip.

Daryl moved, mouth still at Rick’s nipple, giving Rick’s hand room to squirm between them and—oh. Releasing Rick’s nipple, Daryl lifted himself, watched Rick open his own belt and jeans one-handed. Once they were open, Daryl got his hand down in there before Rick could. “I can—” Daryl began.

“Go back to what you were doing,” said Rick.

Hesitation laced through Daryl—Rick shouldn’t have to touch his own cock—but Daryl wanted to do what Rick said, so he removed his hand from Rick’s cock, went back to sucking Rick’s nipples. Rick’s own hand wrapped around his own cock. The positioning was awkward—they didn’t really fit on the couch, Rick’s hand between them, but Daryl had a knee on the cushions, holding himself over Rick’s body, and they made it work.

“Yeah,” Rick said, jacking his own cock between them, slowly. “That’s nice. Keep doing it.” He arched into Daryl’s mouth, as though to press closer.

For a minute or two, Daryl obeyed, licking and kissing Rick’s nipples like Rick seemed to like, but Rick didn’t hiss again. He just said, “Yeah,” and, “Nice,” and, “Good,” stroking his cock as though Daryl weren’t right there to do it for him. 

Daryl couldn’t stand it, Rick touching himself. Daryl’s hand went down there again before he’d really planned on it.

“Okay,” said Rick, taking his own hand away.

Daryl got his hand around Rick’s cock, and Rick put his hands on Daryl’s face, pulling him up to kiss him on the mouth—which was good, because Daryl was bad at kissing but turned out, he was even worse with nipples. He just didn’t know what to do with them, and this was more familiar, getting to kiss Rick, the way Rick kissed so impolitely—hungry and wet and sucking on Daryl’s tongue. Yeah, this was better. Squeezing Rick’s cock, Daryl began moving down—he needed to get his mouth on Rick’s cock. He wanted to get his mouth on it; he—

“Stop,” said Rick.

Daryl looked up at him.

“Get back up here,” Rick said, grabbing Daryl’s shirt to pull him up.

Daryl looked down at Rick’s dick uncomprehendingly—hard and dripping for it—then back up at Rick’s face. “I ain’t—” Daryl cut himself off. _I ain’t used to giving handjobs_ , he’d been about to say, but it sounded kind of pathetic, phrased like that.

“Come on.” Rick put his hand on the back of Daryl’s head, guiding Daryl to kiss. Took Daryl’s hand, brought it down to his cock again. “Touch me.”

“I ain’t good at that,” Daryl said, pulling away.

Lines appeared between Rick’s brows, his mouth flattening. 

“I’m good at blowjobs.” Daryl was starting to get frustrated. “You can use my mouth.”

Rick stared at him.

“Or my . . . you can use my ass,” Daryl said quickly. “You can use it any time.”

“I don’t wanna use any part of you,” Rick said lowly.

“Why?” Daryl wasn’t used to talking this way, but he wanted Rick to know how he felt, how completely he felt it. “Man, you said you liked it tight and wet. I got two holes for you; you can use them any way you—”

“ _Stop_.” Fury flashed across Rick’s face. 

“I’m just trying to—” Daryl moved to climb off him the rest of the way, but Rick stopped him, grabbing him with hard hands.

“Stop,” Rick said again. For a moment, Rick just held onto him, hands tight on Daryl’s arms, then he tilted his head up and kissed him. It was a hard, brutal kiss, nothing at all like Rick’s other kisses, and it was over in a matter of seconds. “Christ,” Rick said. He still sounded furious.

“Rick—”

“You,” Rick began, then stopped.

Thinking maybe Rick wanted it after all, Daryl reached for him.

Rick flinched. “Don’t,” he said.

Daryl got off him.

“I need,” Rick said, then cut himself off. Quickly, he stood, jerking up his jeans. “Don’t go anywhere. I need five minutes.” Then strode out of the room.

Well, hell. Daryl had never seen Rick so angry, and Daryl didn’t even know what he’d done. Flopping back into the couch, Daryl tried to think it through, figure out what the big deal was. So Rick hadn’t wanted to be blown right then, Jesus; Daryl _got_ it. There wasn’t any reason for Rick to get so pissed, and Daryl was kinda mad about it. 

Daryl fucked up plenty and Rick was just a fucking knight about it— _you’re so great, Daryl; you do so good; I wanna date you_ , or whatever. Then, what, Rick didn’t wanna get head—and who the hell wouldn’t? It was Rick’s fault for not being normal— _that_ was when Rick chose to lose his fucking mind? Christ. Daryl banged his head on the back of the sofa, which was too soft to really be effective. 

What a goddamn circus.

He couldn’t even explain the past twenty-four hours—getting tied up, building a crib, shopping for goddamn _diapers_ , Rick blowing him—twice—this was like a whirlwind; it was crazy. 

Standing up, Daryl tugged up his jeans. He’d never closed them after Rick had blown him, but he did it now, tucking his filthy dick in, pulling up the zipper, buttoning the button. Rick had been in such a hurry to push Daryl up against the wall and kiss him that the bags from Babies”R”Us were in piles near the door. Striding past them, Daryl opened the door and walked out of it.

Daryl went to his truck with an intent to leave. He was gonna tear on out of here, fuck it, because everything was too much. He was gonna fail anyway, never be good enough for him, why not just fuck it all today? But even as he got to the truck, Daryl knew he wasn’t gonna.

He wasn’t gonna. He couldn’t. He couldn’t leave—Rick had said five minutes. 

Jesus.

At his truck, Daryl got the pack of cigarettes out of the driver’s side door, tapped one out, got it in his mouth. Didn’t even pause before lighting it, because fuck it. If Rick didn’t like the smell it was his own goddamn problem, and besides, _I don’t wanna use any part of you_. 

Rick probably meant it in a nice way, like he thought it was bad to be used. Like he was upset that Daryl wanted to be used, that he liked it. Or he didn’t know Daryl liked it, thought Daryl was offering it just to—fuck, Daryl didn’t know— _service_ him? That pissed Daryl off so fucking much. Christ, he was pacing; it made him so fucking mad. 

He’d never serviced anyone in his _life_ ; even if he was a fucked-up faggot whore, he _liked_ it. That was the whole problem. He liked it. Daryl had chosen Jake; he’d wanted him. He’d not only let Jake do the kinds of things he did; he’d provoked them. Christ.

Christ.

Did Rick think he was some kind of victim? Rick and his _I don’t wanna use any part of you_? Like Rick thought nasty scum like Jake had mistreated him somehow, like Rick thought Daryl was broken and fragile, something you had to treat carefully—was that what Rick thought? Like Rick had tied him up and fingered him not because Rick liked it, like he’d said, but because there was something he was trying to prove?

Fuck. Daryl puffed on his cigarette, trying to get more out of it. His hand came up to get it out of his mouth and he was shaking. He was so angry he could feel his face folding in, eyes burning, that catch at the back of his throat, like he was gonna cry. Fuck. Fuck.

“Of course he thinks you’re a pussy,” said Merle. “Damn, boy, what’d you think he wanted you for?”

“Go away,” said Daryl.

“Look at you,” said Merle. “Shaking and crying. Talking to yourself. Why _wouldn’t_ he think he needed to take care of your sweet pansy ass? Queer trash like you? Why else would he be with you? Makes him feel like a hero, caring for the weak.”

Merle was never anything at all if not predictable; Daryl knew exactly what he would say, and the thought was strangely soothing. Daryl could feel his shoulders settle; his hands stopped shaking. Reaching up to the cigarette again, Daryl exhaled, saw it was burnt down nearly to the filter. He started another one, dropping the first on the ground and crushing it with a boot.

Feeling calmer now, Daryl stopped thinking about it, letting his brain zone out. He thought too much anyway. Merle always told him he had, and what did it fucking matter why Rick was with him; it didn’t, as long as he was still with him. 

Daryl just had to keep trying, and he could do that.

He could at least try.

Daryl concentrated on the smoke, letting it fill his lungs, slowly streaming it back out. In, in, in, out. Nothing. In, in, in, out. Nothing.

Smoke swirled away from him in lazy white. Daryl just watched it go, leaning against the truck, the metal cold. Somewhere, a sparrow was twittering. The sun was low in a darkening sky. A door opened.

Daryl was getting to know the parking lot of Rick’s apartment complex real well.

Daryl looked up through the haze and saw Rick, looking around. Spotting Daryl, Rick walked across the parking lot to him. Daryl watched him come through the smoke, Rick and his silly bow legs, his strong walk, confident and assured. 

Rick should’ve put on a jacket. He was gonna get cold.

He looked fucking hot, though. Sleeves pushed up still from when they’d been working on the crib. Rick was always just so fucking hot.

Daryl took another drag on his cigarette.

“I thought you’d gone,” said Rick.

Daryl moved his shoulder non-committedly. He was still thinking maybe he might go, but he knew he wouldn’t. Not if Rick wanted him to say.

Rick put his hands on his hips. Looked across the parking lot, where a man and a woman were getting into a sedan. Looked back at Daryl. “I’m sorry,” Rick said.

Daryl waited until the doors on the sedan were closed and the engine was started up. Weren’t no one else in the parking lot. “Ain’t got nothing to be sorry for,” Daryl said finally.

Sighing, Rick moved to stand beside him, leaning against the truck. “Why don’t you gimme that?” he said.

Daryl gave him the cigarette, not because he wanted to but because Rick asked, and Daryl had thought he’d never serviced no one but it wasn’t true, because he would’ve serviced Rick. He’d’ve done anything Rick asked even if he didn’t agree with it, just because Rick said go. He’d’ve gone around on his knees with a collar and a leash if Rick wanted it, and Daryl never would’ve done that with anyone else, not ever. 

Rick took a drag on the cigarette.

Daryl watched incredulously, but Rick was already handing the cigarette back, smoke curling out of his mouth. Then he coughed a little.

“Fucking novice,” Daryl muttered, putting the cigarette back in his own mouth.

“What, you think I should practice?”

“Hell, no.”

“Yeah.” Rick put his hand out for the cigarette and Daryl gave it to him again, partly just because he wanted to watch it.

Looking at Rick with the cigarette in his mouth made Daryl’s treacherous dick twitch in his pants, and he couldn’t even be bothered to care how messed up that was, because Daryl knew he was fucked. He was so fucked when it came to Rick. There was no stopping it; there wasn’t a cure for it; this was just how it was.

Rick handed the cigarette back, exhaled, didn’t cough this time. Daryl took it, put it in his mouth.

He puffed for a while. The bird had stopped twittering. Clouds were gathering in the sky.

“I ain’t a victim,” Daryl said finally.

“What?” Rick’s voice was sharp.

Daryl shrugged. “I ain’t.”

Daryl’s eyes slid over to him. Rick was frowning.

Sucking in on the cigarette, Daryl let it fill his lungs. He exhaled, facing away from Rick so smoke wouldn’t go his direction. “What I said,” Daryl said finally, taking out his cigarette, “about what you could use. I wasn’t saying it because I—because you . . .” Fuck. Daryl shoved the cigarette back into his mouth.

“I know why you said it,” said Rick.

Daryl scowled at him.

“I shouldn’t have reacted that way,” said Rick. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Yeah, which was why Rick had stormed out of the room like the wrath of God had filled him up, but Daryl knew he _hadn’t_ done nothing wrong, except for maybe get too insistent about a blowjob.

Rick looked up at the sky. “I told you that day in the park,” he said, after another long moment. “I haven’t done this in a real long time.”

 _You did it with Jessie_ , Daryl wanted to say, but Rick had broke up with Jessie. He broke up with her right after Daryl said he was single, and it could still be that Rick had planned on breaking up with her anyway, but Daryl remembered it. Wondered about it. The idea that Rick would want him that much. That he hadn’t stopped wanting him since that day in the park. Since before that.

Long before that.

“With Lori, I . . . I’d known her so long, she knew all my ins and outs,” Rick said. “I knew hers. I didn’t have to say things I don’t know how to say.”

Daryl eyed him through the smoke. 

“This is the best day I’ve had since we went hunting,” Rick said, and it was so fucking sad that Daryl wanted to say something mean, just to shut him up. 

But Rick was done, and they stood there, Daryl puffing on his cigarette. Daryl decided to say it anyway. “You’re a goddamn sap.”

“Yeah,” Rick agreed.

Angling his head away again, Daryl let out another long stream. “I didn’t mean you could use me like a fucking wheelbarrow, Rick. I ain’t a tool. I—it was meant to be fucking mutual.”

“I know,” Rick said. 

_Then what’s your goddamn problem_ , Daryl wanted to say, but didn’t. Dropping his cigarette, he stubbed it out with his toe.

“It’s more,” Rick said finally, with effort. “For me. When I’m with you. It’s more than just . . . . Getting off is—it’s secondary. It’s not as important as . . . Christ.” Rick rubbed his brow with the heel of his hand. “You’re important to me. Do you get that? Do you get I don’t just wanna fuck around?”

Daryl’s eyes slid over to him. “You said.”

“I know what I said. I don’t know that you actually believed it. You’re so . . .”

Daryl waited.

“I wanna date you,” Rick said finally.

 _You said that too_ , Daryl wanted to say, but he didn’t think Rick would appreciate it. Daryl’s gaze slid away. He was trying to understand.

“I want . . .” Rick ground his teeth. “I want you in my life. I don’t want it to be like—I don’t want us just to use each other.”

“Man,” said Daryl. “We were shopping.”

Rick frowned.

Daryl explained, “I wasn’t—I wasn’t doing nothing. I was gonna put your goddamn highchair together. I was gonna help you finish your goddamn crib. For fuck’s sake. I went to a baby store. You were the one who—” _can’t stop kissing me—_ “I wasn’t doing nothing,” Daryl continued lamely. “I was trying to—I was trying to make it more than—than—more than, Christ, anything I had before, and you were the one who started it. You started it, this time. Rick, you were the one who pushed me up against a wall.”

“Yeah.” Rick sounded a little chagrined. “I was—you just . . . You do things sometimes. It makes me . . . Christ. You make me crazy.”

Daryl eyed him incredulously.

“See? You don’t believe me.”

“Pfft.”

Rick put his arm on the side of the truck bed. “I can’t explain it. The way you make me feel. And you never fucking listen when I try to tell you, so then I tried to show you, but you won’t listen to that either. That’s why . . . last night, that’s why it happened, but I don’t even know if you listened to that, or understand the things I . . . ” 

Daryl looked around. Christ, they shouldn’t be talking outside. He wanted another cigarette. He wanted to hear what Rick was gonna say, hear him say more things like that. He also couldn’t bear it.

Rick leaned his temple against his fist as he looked at Daryl. Daryl could feel him looking. “Today. You were looking at that dumb elephant,” said Rick. “You started saying ‘we’ should get things and I . . . It just made me think about the future. With you. And I . . . do you know how long it’s been? Since I thought about the future?”

Daryl wanted to curl up and die. He didn’t want Rick to ever stop. This was like being tied to the bed, only worse. 

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Daryl swallowed hard. Rick just stood there listening, and he was gonna need an answer. He wouldn’t let Daryl get away without it.

Just nod, Daryl thought to himself. Nod. Say _I get it_ , because Rick would probably know he was lying, but he’d let him get away with it. He’d let Daryl get away with it, and Daryl needed to get away. He needed to be away from this.

“Why?” Daryl heard himself say.

Rick frowned again. “Why what?”

“Why . . .” Daryl made a sharp gesture. “Me? Why not—why couldn’t . . . Man, what was wrong with Jessie? She was good-looking. She was—man, you could’ve had a life with her. There’s your ‘future’. I don’t understand why you would . . .”

“Daryl.” Rick’s voice was tight.

“Nah, man, at least own up to the fact that it don’t make _sense_ , what we’re doing here, what . . .” Daryl looked around the parking lot again, just to make sure no one was around. “You and me. We don’t make sense. It don’t make sense for you. You could’ve been with her.”

“I didn’t want her.”

“Why?” Daryl’s voice cracked.

Rick looked at him. Daryl could feel him looking, but couldn’t bring himself to meet Rick’s eyes, fearing what Rick would say. What he wouldn’t say. God, this was stupid. This was all as a result of a freaking handjob; it was stupid. They should just go inside and Daryl would get him off and they could forget about it; they should just forget about it.

Daryl didn’t move.

“I wanted Lori,” Rick said finally. “I wanted a house and a family and—all of that. Shane . . . he didn’t want it. He went his own way, until one day he woke up, and I guess he realized . . . he realized it’s what he wants, now. But I woke up—I woke up from that coma, and it’s . . . it’s not what I want, anymore. I want Carl. I want Judith. They’re mine. But that—that whole life, that person Lori wants me to be—I’m not that. I have . . . things . . . There are things inside me that don’t fit that world. That never did, and you—you fit that. Don’t ask me to measure how. You just do.”

Cars rushed by on the main road. Grass grew between the cracks in the pavement, where the parking lot met the curb.

Rick sighed, pushing himself off the truck. “If you can’t understand that—”

“I’m trying.”

Rick paused.

“I’m trying,” Daryl croaked.

Rick’s head tilted. “You keep asking what I want,” he said, after a long moment. “You’ve never once said what you want.”

Daryl was startled into looking up, his cheeks gone hot. “Shit, Rick. You know.”

Rick pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth scraping on it as he slowly let it out. Christ. “Yeah,” Rick drawled. “I know.”

“What, I gotta say it?” Daryl said.

“No.” But then Rick just stood there. 

He just stood there and Daryl couldn’t think of what to say, how to say it. He was so obvious; he knew he was obvious. Carol had took one look at him that day at the shooting range and she knew; she knew and Rick knew. He had to know how bad it was, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe he really didn’t, and that killed Daryl, that Rick might not know. That Rick might not get it, that possibly he’d never got it, not really. That he didn’t know that he was special and rare and perfect, just like Rick said about Daryl.

Rick’s hands were by his sides and no one was in the parking lot. The truck was blocking the north and the apartments were to the west. A line of garages was to the east and a sedan two spaces away was to the south. Daryl knew what he should do and he couldn’t. 

He just couldn’t.

So he tried anyway, hand reaching out, movement too slow—so many parts of himself fighting it, but he wanted it. God, he wanted it, so he tried, and then his fingers were close enough to brush the back of Rick’s hand. Just a touch—the tips of Daryl’s fingers just brushing Rick’s—calloused skin and blood vessels, knuckles and strong muscles, Rick. 

Daryl took his hand away. Rick swallowed. 

“No,” said Rick. “You don’t gotta say it. But you do have to work on believing I feel the same about you.”

Rick had no idea what he was saying. _Daryl_ had no idea what he was saying. “Rick.” Daryl’s voice caught.

“Let’s go inside,” said Rick.

Christ. Rick had the most bedroom eyes Daryl had ever seen.

Daryl followed him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have enjoyed this story, there is a link on the Rickyl Library tumblr where you can rec/reblog it: [here](http://rickyl-library.tumblr.com/post/159648128582/the-door-begins-to-crack-archive).
> 
> I've confessed that one reason I post fic is I love to discuss fandom, canon, fic, and writing. I find it's harder to connect to fannish people these days, and I have loved connecting with you. If you would like to talk more, you can email me at letteredlettered@gmail.com, message letteredlettered on tumblr, or message lettered on Dreamwidth. 
> 
> I will probably post a pwp one-shot that takes place in this universe sometime in May or June, but it's unlikely I will continue this series beyond that. Thank you again for reading and to everyone who commented.


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